Psychology
by Penelope Grace
Summary: Modern College Professor!Tom Riddle Magic AU
1. Psychology

**Prompt: Psychology**

A/N: *sobs* I came back to avoid studying for my finals, but couldn't find anything new to read. So here we go, lmao! This little drabble is a Modern + College + Professor!Tom Riddle + Magic AU. And let's admit it. There is something really hot about Tom Riddle as a professor. But unfortunately, my salsa game is not strong in this.

Forgive me, but I'm not very familiar with British universities, so I'm pulling my knowledge of the American universities. Sorry.

Also, it's been a long time since I've written a fanfic and I'm just getting back on the bike now. So it's going to be weird. Very weird.

 _I._

Morgana College, a selective research university, houses the best and brightest wizards and witches of the age. It's one of the top 10 magical universities in the world and the best one in Britain. Naturally, Hermione Granger couldn't resist continuing her education after completing Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. Her friends, Harry and Ron, were not a single bit shocked.

Molly Weasley, after congratulating on her acceptance to Morgana, asked, "What is your focus, Hermione?" She placed a lovely cake on the dining table and smiled broadly.

Hermione, still clutching her acceptance letter in her pocket, as if she can't quite believe the words on there, choked out, "I think I want to study Occlumency."

Angelina Johnson, a pretty dark-skinned woman and a graduate of Morgana College, reached across the table for salt. She exchanged an unreadable glance with Percy.

Hermione looked between both of them. They both graduated from Morgana College, but there was something there they weren't sure about telling her.

She not-so-discreetly coughed.

After some hesitation and perhaps reluctance as well, Percy casually informed, "I know some witches who wanted to be healers. Occlumency was a small part of the healer's curriculum, but from what I heard, it's very difficult."

Johnson piped in, "It can make or break you. Doesn't help that the Occlumency professor is an expert at Legilimency. But if you want to learn Occlumency, learn from him."

"Who?" she asked.

"Professor Riddle," Percy and Angelina said together.

Clearing his throat, Harry glances up from his plate. "I heard from the Auror Academy that he's really brilliant. He could find any buried memories from any prisoner. Good at Occlumency but far better at Legilimency." He pushes up his glasses.

 _II._

She does her research on this professor. Little of her information comes from the listing of professor and his nonexistent bio (which only tells her he's been employed for the last six years), but she discovers far more facts and opinions via the word of mouth and the grapevine. "A cold fish," claims her roommate, Jane, who has suffered through one semester with Professor Riddle. Evelyn interjects, "Never took one of his classes before, but when you walk by him, I swear I feel like his eyes knows everything about your life." She tosses a pillow at the wall and covers her face with a textbook the size of a telephone book. "Do you think I can study the entire book before the finals tomorrow?"

Hermione doesn't answer that question. The secret to cracking a 800-page textbook is always to write comprehensive notes containing lecture notes from the professor and what's forgettable. 800 pages can be condensed into 50 or so pages of notes.

She looks to her other roommates. The dooms are similar to Hogwarts with loads of excellent, potential studying places. Chang Yi shakes her head. "Granger, you're crazy if you think you can take two of his classes in one semester. Just one class can drive some poor bloke mad. Introduction to Occlumency 100Hc and Introduction to Legilimency 100Hc. _H. C._ Honors courses." She waves her wand, and her books neatly fold themselves into a stack upon her mattress. " _Honors_. Prepare to see a lot of Acceptables, at best."

Hermione blinks. It's very similar in line to what other people say.

"But," adds Jane, nodding solemnly, "survive with an Acceptable and you'll learn a lot." She stares out of the window, as if watching someone walk the plank to the dark seawater below.

 _III._

When Hermione pulls her black shawl tighter around herself, she already has a picture of Professor Riddle in her mind. She can see him enter the quiet, almost dead classroom with a cane in his hand and wrinkled, dark eyes. He would be quite old, perhaps in his 70s, with a permanent evil smirk. A somewhat older version of Severus Snape, she supposes. A red inkwell would be already in his hand, and his favorite word is "Poor," "Dreadful," and "Troll." These words are perhaps on the very tip of his tongue. She ponders the state of his hair. It's probably messy, as if he hasn't bothered to tame it in the morning. Or. . . maybe he is bald. She can see that. Men do tend to lose their hair in their advanced age.

She looks to the desks next to her. Both empty. No one dares to sit themselves in the front. A silent gaggle of fellow students crowd themselves in the back, as if they can't get far enough from the lecture podium. Normally, classrooms would be filled with chatter before the professors arrive.

This one isn't.

She discreetly checks her pocketwatch. 5:58. About to arrive at any moment in this unholy early morning.

The door opens a minute later. For a second, Hermione thinks this man, this surprisingly youthful, tall man, is a student. An aristocrat like the snobbish Draco Malfoy, who is annoyingly attending Morgana College as well, but with a focus in potions or something along the line. Unlike Malfoy, who wears his money's worth, he chooses to wear a long, thin black coat with leather gloves. His night-black hair is styled carefully, and he sports dragon hide boots. But most unmistakable is his aura. Confidence oozes from him, and Hermione leans forward, entranced.

But it isn't just confidence or the grace or the ease he carries himself with. It's the thrill of power, too. Hermione catches a whiff of it, isolating the source. The more she tries to gauge it, the stronger the particular scent becomes. Overwhelming her senses.

He's no student. He's experienced, older, different from everyone else. Appearances can so deceive the sight but not the truth.

He sets his briefcase on the table next to the podium. Waving his wand at the chalkboard, he writes on the board and says, "I'm Professor Riddle. This is Legilimency 100 Honors. If anyone would like to leave now without a mark on their academic record, they may." His eyes are focused on the board, watching as the chalk writes down the word, HONORS.

A chair creaks, and someone coughs. They leave through the backdoor of the classroom.

The professor turns around.

And everyone holds their breath.

Professor Riddle's murky-colored eyes scrutinize the back of the classroom first. He makes his way to the front, to where Hermione alone sits. She captures his gaze, and she's struck by the piercing, bewitching nature of his very eyes. He looks, she thinks, as if he is viewing my entire soul through a window.

His lips twitches as if amused by a private joke, and suddenly, Hermione stiffens. Legilimency, she hisses to herself. He could hear everything in her mind.

"What is Legilimency?" he suddenly asks, his voice sharp.

Hermione blinks, stunned by the sudden noise. She slowly raises her hand, and he nods curtly. "Legilimency is a branch of magic. Loosely translated as 'mind-reading.'"

He frowns in disapproval, sinking Hermione's heart. "A typical textbook answer at the elementary level. However, this is a college. Morgana College." He glances at Hermione's eyes after a short pause. "Miss Granger."

Waving his hand in emphasis, he lectures, "Legilimency is more than a branch of magic. It is more than mind-reading. I can see that about one-fifth of the class are Muggleborns." He leans against the podium, eyeing everyone. He seems quite fond of the eye contact. "That's four of you, in a class size of twenty. Muggles have a similar science to Legilimency. They call it psychology." A pause. "Psychology is a science, studying the mind and its functions. Your Wizarding textbooks give more general explanations of what Legilimency is, but the definition of psychology applies far more closely to Legilimency."

Unconsciously, Hermione leans forward.

"Legilimency is the study of the mind. An invasion of someone else's mind as you seek to navigate its chaotic nature. The spell is a tool, to help you understand. No two minds are the same. If you ever succeed to find yourself in one of my 400-level classes, you'll discover that not even twins have the same structure or mindset." Turning his back to his class, Professor Riddle reaches deep into his coat for his wand and plants it on the table. All eyes are on him. "Legilimency is an art. But it can also be used as a weapon."

He pivots, and Hermione, by habit or by his will, immediately captures his potent gaze. The homely, warm classroom disappears, breaking off into splinters of wood. She smells something familiar. Like morning dew and dying leaves. The smell of autumn. And does she even smell blood? But she isn't sure.

The world morphs and shifts, and Hermione closes her eyes, shutting out the fast-moving details. A bird chirps to her left, and she blinks. A lovely forest with lush leaves. Butterflies glide on the lazy breeze. Springtime. But it couldn't be. It's still September, isn't it?

 _It is April. Go and play._

She runs across a leaning tree, slips off her walking boots, and begins to climb the height. Play. It seems like a good idea to Hermione, though she doesn't know why. On her sixth branch, Hermione pauses and watches as a colorful bird swoops in the air and disappears between evergreen leaves. A hummingbird.

Anna's hummingbirds aren't found in Europe. They don't live here.

"It's still September," she realizes. Her chocolate-brown eyes glance at the world. "Lies. All lies."

 _Truth: It is April._

"It is September," she whispers, holding onto that sentence like a prayer. She shuts her eyes. Her mind is too quiet. It doesn't seem right. She breathes in as she concentrates and thinks about potions. The right ingredients to make Wolfsbane. She goes through it, remembering her hands stirring. Her back suddenly feels too warm, as if someone is watching. She looks. A odd spirit lurks outside of the potion room's doorway.

It's not of her. But it seems familiar. She throws down her stirring rod and runs to the doorway. She checks left. Then right.

No one is there.

She spins around and gasps. Professor Riddle examines her potion. Or rather the memory of her potion. He sticks a stirring rod in the boiling liquid and casually states, "Very acute, Miss Granger. Picking apart the little details that don't add up."

She grinds her teeth. "Let go of my mind." Her hand tightens around the wand in her pocket. She isn't sure what jinx to cast, but she is confident that it would be painful.

"Your focus is in Occlumency," he says, glancing around the Hogwarts potion room. He turns back to Hermione. "You are a poor Occlumen."

Hermione flushes. "I have no intention of being an Occulmen, but I wish to-"

He smirks, as if amused by her intentions. "Miss Granger, one can't study Occlumency without ever being an Occulmen herself. And you can't study Occulmency without studying Legilimency as well. And if you are unwilling to become a Legilimen and a Occulmen, you will not succeed in your focus." He tilts his head, almost as if challenging her. "Unless you want to change your focus? You don't seem willing to be an Occulmen."

She shakes her head, grimacing. "Get out of my mind," she grits. She isn't sure of her sight, but it appears that Professor Riddle moves back forcibly as if hit by an invisible hand. Just a centimeter. He's too strong.

Professor Riddle runs his pianist fingers across the counter. "If you wish to continue your focus, you'll find out that I am your advisor, Miss Granger. Your choice, Miss Granger." He leans against the wall, slowly melting away.

Hermione blinks. One moment, she's trapped in her memories. The next, she's back in the classroom. She gasps, coming out of the water and breathing real air. Like dipping into a pool and rising to the surface.

Professor Riddle cocks his head and smiles. He turns towards the board as some students throw up on their desks or groan with agony. "That was Legilimency at work. Now, for your homework, you must do a little reading."

He smirks evilly.

It's not going to be little. Hermione can tell and quickly rips out her inkwell and quill.

"Psychology for Dummies, Introduction to Psychology: Anniversary Edition, Advanced Legilimency, and Beginners Occlumency. Read all of Psychology for Dummies and pages sixteen to fifty-eight for Intro to Psych. Pages two to thirteen for Advanced Legilimency. And read all of Beginners Occlumency. That would be all for today." A pause. "You may submit your requests to withdraw in two minutes." Though he may keep a straight face, Hermione can tell he's getting a kick out of this. Too much of a kick.

That's how the class shrank from twenty-one to twelve.

Second A/N: I think I might continue this, but I'm not sure. I don't have enough time anywhere in this month or the next. Maybe summer break. I hope.


	2. Threads

**Prompt: Threads**

A/N: Well, then. . . I'm back! Is it me or it feels like I'm keeping this Tomione drabble thread alive? O.o I seriously hope not. Helloooooo, anyone out there? As you can probably tell I'm a bit crazy at the moment, because I have finals tomorrow, it is past midnight, and all I want a bloody cup of tea. But no, I don't have a cup. I haven't studied either. I'm so doomed. So doomed.

RIP my grades! ARGHHHHHH!

Anyway. . . This is a continuation of the Professor!Tom Riddle drabble. Part 2 begins here. Or would it be chapter 2? I don't know. Oh, well. Modern + College + Magic + Professor!Tom Riddle AU. Also, I can never quite get over that. Professor Tom Riddle. Yum, yum.

I.

 _Hermione doesn't just get_ the psychology books the good professor requested. She came from a Muggle background. She might as well use it. Google provides a stellar amount of information about psychology. She thinks back to the times of early childhoods, back to when her parents thought her as an average child with no extraordinary traits. _Follow dentistry_ , her father had suggested when she was eight. On the subject of psychology, her father dismissed it as a soft science and majorly made up of dubious characters such as one Philip Zimbardo in his Stanford prison experiment.

She looks through the Wikipedia article of his prison experiment. Then she glances down to her lap, to where a Muggle psychology textbook lays. Squints at the words. The experiment didn't just "got out of hand." It went complete bonkers. And vile. _Only in the 60s_ , she thinks. She squints at the date. _Or early 70s_.

There is absolutely no way they would run an experiment like this today. It wouldn't be morally acceptable.

She flips through the pages. Professor Riddle covers some decent ground of Muggle psychology. He has the class covering the structure of the brain to its intricate, detailed functions. Medulla, cerebellum. . . So many parts that make up a whole.

Her hand runs across the colorful illustrations of the hindbrain. Every single layer, every single part, perfectly labeled and colored in red, blue, orange, pink. . . But what does have to do with Legilimency?

Her fingers underline the highlighted definition of psychology in the Muggle textbook.

 _Psychology._ Noun _._ _the scientific study of the human mind and its functions, especially those affecting behavior in a given context._

Study of the mind and its functions.

She taps her fingers against her temple. She has a feeling that learning this, whatever this is, will only be the foundation to whatever the good professor is building up to.

 _II._

Occlumency Honors. The first class begins two days after Legilimency Honors. She glances around at her class. A smaller group than Legilimency Honors. She wonders if it's because Occlumency is not as attractive as Legilimency or that potential students heard about Professor Riddle's exploration of the minds on Monday. She reckon it was more of the latter than the former.

It's another horror story in the collection of Professor Riddle's horror stories. She has heard from her roommate's friend that Professor Riddle managed to control somebody's limbs that Monday and then made them dance hip-hop. Or bellydance. Or yodeling. Gossip is a game of telephone, and the truth is always scarred beyond recognition, impossible to dig out.

Always about what he has done, not where he has come from. She remembers the way he looks, the way he's dressed. Similar in the aristocratic style as the Malfoys but dressed subtlety attractive. It's not modest. But it is not extravagant, much like how a peacock spread its watchful wings as courtship. His background. Where was he born? What created a mind like his? What was his development? What kind of parental styles was he raised under? Was his parents controlling, domineering? Or perhaps were they neglectful?

Trust versus mistrust. Autonomy versus shame. It goes on and on. Erikson's Stages of Psychosocial Development. The concept wasn't required reading, but Hermione always likes to cover the material one hundred percent and then fifteen percent more. She would guess Professor Riddle is around his late twenties.

Intimacy versus isolation.

Hermione chooses the front once again. No one sits besides her in the open seats. Instead, they crowd in the back. Not a single word is even whispered as the clock in the front of the room ticks with its seconds hand. Just the smell of sugarless, black coffee. Slowly, just slowly, its bitter scents awakes Hermione.

The door opens, right on time. Professor Riddle steps him. Sporting a black wool coat, he places his dark brown briefcase onto the podium. His coat is tossed over the teacher's desk. White collared shirt, revealed. He rolls up his sleeve, folding back the fabric on both arms. His forearms are pale and sculpted, as if carved from marble. Hermione can't help but watch a gentle dark curl slip down to cover part of his forehead as his mouth pursed in concentration. He looks. . . stunningly boyish all of the sudden.

Someone slap her. Now.

Last time she has felt something close to this was Professor Lockhart back in Hogwarts. She nearly pukes as more recent memories of Professor Lockhart comes to mind. Retrograde amnesia. Memory loss, in which he can't remember anything before the accident but could remember things after the accident.

"Occulumency."

Hermione turns her eyes towards Professor Riddle. Unconsciously, she leans forward, as if she could learn better from the professor. Or perhaps, it is more than that. His voice is warm, soothing, and calm. It has presence, but it also possesses the traits of a true siren, luring sailors to their deaths in dark seawaters where the sunlight never reach.

He peers at every student, every face, every pair of eyes in the room. His foot steps closer to his class. A wand, drawn out from his pockets. His fingers, caressing the wand. He has long, pale fingers. Perfect for a pianist.

She wonders if he plays. She can picture it now. The fingers running across the black and white keys, dancing to each note. Eyes, closed. Heart, open. Eyes, just listening to the music. Mouth. . .

"What is Occlumency?"

Hermione resists the urge to raise her hand. The professor glances over her, and she could swear on her heart, on her soul, that in that single moment, he has arched his eyebrow at her in the most silent, damning challenge possible.

She can hear his dismissal of her provided definition of Legilimency. _Elementary_ , he calls it. _Textbook definition_.

Her cheeks burn.

"Miss Granger? Would you like to provide a definition?" Mouth, curling.

A pause. She quickly thinks. What does he want to hear? At the tip of her tongue lies a perfect textbook recitation of the definition of Occlumency. But she has a feeling that is not sufficient. That is not enough for him.

But she can't make one up. She can't suddenly pull information out of thin air. Harry and Ron may be able to pull bullshit from nowhere, but she is not them. Not anywhere close.

"I don't know," she softly replies.

In the quiet classroom, her words might as well be a shout.

His lips quirk in amusement. "By the end of this semester, every person in here will know the definition of Occlumency. Not its simple, textbook definition. 'The defense against Legilimency'? That is woefully inadequate."

She lets out a sigh of pure relief. At least, she didn't say it, didn't give him that definition. He would shred it apart and throw it to the floor like confetti. Worse of all, she'll be humiliated. Twice.

He waves his wand around casually as he lectures. A small part of Hermione is tempted to raise her hand and tell Professor Riddle that improper handling of his wand could take out someone's eye, but she has a really strong feeling he wouldn't give a damn about someone's eye. Besides, he'll probably stick it back in.

"The best way to discover Occlumency is to experience Legilimency."

Hermione does not fail to notice the evil, delighted glint in his eye. Nor does she forget the way he twirls his wand around in his fingers.

 _III._

He gives each person a mental proddle, instructing them to build mental defenses. Hermione wants to scream, yell at him for not giving better instructions. Mental defenses? From the way he smirks, she can tell that he's going to win. He's going to win whatever game he has them all play. He holds all the cards and strings, and with a twitch of his finger, he will force them to dance to his tune.

There is no way she can outsmart him. He knows too much, and she knows too little.

Perhaps she should simply lay back and close her eyes. It's no use looking through the Occlumency textbook like how some of her panicking peers are. The information to building a wall, a block isn't there. Methodology and instructions against Legilimency, in a book about Occlumency, is not included. What a horrible textbook, but she suspects it is precisely the reason he picked this book to include in his curriculum.

"Miss Granger," he says, raising a brow. "Ready?"

She nods. Might as well rip off the bandaid. Then it's over.

 _IV._

She'll be lying if she says the experience of Legilimency is the same as last time. Something has changed. Perhaps it's because she's far more alert, aware of how Professor Riddle slinks through her memories with frighteningly ease. He prowls through her childhood memories, searching and pausing whenever he finds a memory somewhat interesting. Like the one where she takes standardized tests to measure her intelligence.

 _Convergent thinker_ , he muses. _You need more creativity_.

He stops at a memory where she pours her heart and soul into memorizing the details of difficult wand work for a certain spell.

 _There's a maneuver_ , he whispers.

Out of some stupid impulse, she replies back. _But it is the more traditional way_. Her voice echoes, and she feels louder, bolder than what she really is. After all, he is inside of her own mind, manipulating it to unravel the secrets she has never told.

 _Traditional_ , he repeats.

She can feel his amusement. She doesn't care. She can feel his powerful presence lurking among her childhood memories, skimming through the colors and details. She doesn't know where exactly he is, but she can sense a sort of direction, sort of like how she can sense a voice in the back of her mind advising her not to do something incredibly stupid.

 _If traditions are held true_ , he pauses, _then we would believe the sun revolves around the earth. But that isn't true. We seek to improve what's already there and to build upon it to make the great monument imaginable._

She paces among more recent memories. Hiding among the lethal bargainings with a real estate agent. She still senses his prying open her lost, deep memories. In the deepest part of her brain. Down, down, down. If the brain is an onion, Professor Riddle is all the way next to the core and peeling away each layer. Still digging and digging.

It's wrong, she realizes. Completely wrong.

The core is how she lives, how she breathes, how she survives. If he gets to that core. . . She doesn't know what would happen, but she can imagine the horrors. He could. . . do anything to her.

This is where she thinks. Her own thoughts. Private. And now this professor wants to discover her by forcing his way. He may be gentle and subtle in his movements, but she knows exactly what he's doing.

She has do something. Anything.

Slowly, she withdraws. Folding herself in a neat, tiny corner of her brain. She can feel herself getting stronger, more willful. Even though there's less of _her_ throughout the mind, threads, nerves, connection each section of the brain to the next pass whispers and reports of the intruder casually observing the last and only conversation she had with Professor Albus Dumbledore. Harry's far closer to Professor Dumbledore, managing to talk to him every six months. His parents are friends to the headmaster.

Hermione holds her breath as she dashes towards Professor Riddle. Perhaps he knows. Sees the way there's less of her now. More of a brain filled with memories but without a will to guide it. She is close enough to taste his emotions.

So different than what it was before. Where it was cocky, arrogant, confident.

Now, it is strange apprehension.

But it can't be.

Is she actually doing something right?

He stops looking through her memory. The one where she and Victor Krum kiss on the last day of her fourth year. She winces. She nearly forgot about that. At that time, it was the most glorious and heated kiss of her life. Oh, how little she knew.

 _Miss Granger_ , he says in mock surprise, _where did you go?_

 _Here_ , she whispers back. Professor Riddle stiffens, and she reaches for everything she ever remembers. It's so much information, all of these notes and facts she has so lovingly memorized for the future. Potion recipes, spells, wand work, math. But she knows far more than that. She knows the daily habits of Crookshanks, the unique way he hisses at Harry and Ron, the messy gifts he leaves on her front porch. She knows every hair on Ron Weasley's eyebrow, knows the way it thins out. The little details. All the little details of the bigger picture.

Professor Riddle retreats, pulling himself back.

She frowns, instantly suspicious.

His presence, his conscious is still here. But where?

Then suddenly, her world turns upside down. A furious hurricane of memories, not hers, slap by. It's too fast, overwhelming to see the precise details. She picks apart a few pieces. A piece of white cloth. A woman's chilling, sadistic laughter. The echoing sound of a smack across the face. The deep, scent of cigars. The cold, bitter wind brushing the hairs on the neck.

Then the memories recede, drawing back to the source.

She turns and turns in the abyss of her mind until some force shoves her through a memory. But it's not hers.

 _V._

She sits at an empty desk in a classroom of boys. They are slightly younger, maybe seventeen or eighteen years old. Glancing around, she marvels at the intricate, vibrant details of the stuffy classroom. It's Hogwarts. She's quite sure of it. Moody's classroom. He taught one year at Hogwarts in her first year and then permanently retired.

Slytherin boys. Seventh years.

She spins around. Sure enough, there's this one boy. Abraxas Malfoy is laughing at something while the devastatingly young Tom Riddle calmly and quietly pens in a black journal. A picture of a perfect student. Dutiful, responsible, and dedicated. His sharp Head Boy badge glimmers even in the dim light. His dark hair is styled perfectly.

What is he writing?

The scene freezes, as if someone pushed the pause button on a remote control. Where Professor Moody used to stand is the real Professor Riddle. His hand slams down the chalk, and Hermione quickly turns her head towards him.

He raises his hands together in a slow clap. She isn't sure if it's supposed to be mocking or congratulating.

"Throwing memories at a Legilimens. . ." He pauses, straightening out his cuffs. "Well, I suppose that makes you a shoddy Occlumen."

Hermione reddens, her lips shut tight. If she lets her tongue free, she would use her words to slash Professor Riddle into pieces. It would be completely unbecoming of a student to use such language and diction against her professor.

"What you did was awkward. Much like how a dog would bark," he says. He crouches down, stopping when he's right at Hermione's eye level. His dark eyes gaze right into hers, piercing and searching. "No direction in your attack. Do you know what type of Occlumency defense was that?"

Hermione shakes her head.

The professor answers quietly, "Sensory overload. Where you overwhelm the Legilimens and attempt to confound them with too much information. Combined with Withdrawal, it's a deadly, offensive defense." At Hermione's confused look, he further explains, "Withdrawal is where you center your psyche in one particular area of the brain. It helps strengthen the power of your counterattack. Which you have not. . ." He searches for a word. ". . . inadequately done." From the way his nose scrunches up and his tone of disbelief, _not inadequately_ is a huge compliment coming from him.

He nods at her. "Miss Granger." He begins to pull away.

"Wait," she calls out, standing up from the fading desk. She glances around, her hand gesturing to this foreign memory. "Is this a form of Legilimency then?"

His form, the shape of his body, solidifies again. "Yes. It's called a sticky memory. Used in both Legilimency and Occlumency. It's a way of trapping a psyche in a memory. Keep someone in a sticky memory long enough, and they will be unable to remember they're in a memory."

Before he could slip away from her mind, she blurts out, "Professor Riddle?"

He raises an eyebrow.

"How did you get into the deeper layers of my mind? The older memories?" she questions. "I couldn't tell anything. . ."

A pale hand taps the side of her temple. She shivers, though it's perfectly warm. "You know your mind better than anyone else. No Legilimens can truly understand its depths or behold its true complexities. The greatest Occlumen is a master of their psyche."

"What makes a Legilimen great then?"

Silence.

Professor Riddle slips away. Hermione thinks he's going to leave that question unanswered, just leaving it for her to discover and find.

But she hears a word rebounding, echoing. His voice, his word.

 _Empathy_.

Second A/N: You know I have another test tomorrow, right? I'm so freaking doomed. Oh, well. Hope you enjoyed this!


	3. Healing

A/N: Don't judge me. More tests tomorrow yet I'm typing this at bloody midnight. -_- How am I still even alive at this point and passing classes, lmao? No prompt. Just continuation at this point. Here we go. Also what do you all think of a Tom POV section? It's not in here, but I'm soooo tempted to scribble something down.

The title for this chapter is "Healing."

 _I._

Despite the dramatic first days of class, nothing out of ordinary happens for the next few months. Professor Riddle lectures, gives out homework, and goes on with his life. Hermione asks a few pointed questions here and there, but she swears that she can hear the echoes of his words in the back of her head. Like an imprint of some sorts he has left after his visit into her mind.

 _Empathy_.

She chews on the end of her ball-point pen. Just simply thinking.

Time slips through her fingers. Faster than sand in an hourglass.

 _II._

It is a windy, icy night. Hermione's wild hair blows around her shoulders as she walks between buildings with gritted teeth. An unfamiliar newspaper flies right into her.

She spares only a glance at it before tossing it aside. It lands on the back of the wind and travels to a new destination.

 **Oblivated Victims Rates On The Rise.**

 _III._

Semesters fly by. Hermione watches her classmates thin out. Quickly, they disappear. In Legilimency, sixteen falls to nine in two semesters. By the time Legilimency Advanced 405 Honors class rolls around in the spring, only four people has registered for class. Occlumency Advanced 405 Honors is even worse with only three. Throughout all semesters at Morgana College, she has never failed to take Legilimency and Occlumency concurrently. Professor Riddle has unfailingly given her Acceptables in each class. No one has gotten anything higher. Hermione has checked, many times.

Professor Riddle remains somewhat distant from the class throughout the three years she has studied under him. Aloof, expressionless, empty even. He is exactly what his name is. A riddle. When he performs Legilimency on them, he's professional.

She can't put a finger on it, but it's like the man she saw in the corners of her mind has been replaced by something entirely else. Something older, worn out. Tired, even. He doesn't seem like himself. That sort of weariness appeared right around spring semester of her first year. There were many times where Hermione was the last to leave. But she didn't even have enough courage to ask after Professor Riddle shot her a dark glare. As if telling her to stay out of his business.

Some sort of advisor.

Occlumency Advanced 405 Honors.

As per tradition, she sits in the front. The first row possible, closest to the professor. He sits at the desk, strangely ten minutes earlier than usual. Grading papers with a red quill, he furiously scribbles through them. Hermione wonders if he is actually reading them at that speed or simply just looking for keywords and then docking points when he doesn't see them.

At exactly 5 o'clock, he stands up. He snaps his fingers, and a chalk rises up to scribble something on the board. Hermione squints.

 _STICKY MEMORIES AND THEIR APPLICATION_

Hermione holds her breath. Sticky memories. Throughout the last three years worth of classes, he has never mentioned or taught that method. He taught other memories like permanent mental shields, tabula rasa, and more. Now, finally. Finally, he will explain it.

"Who has heard of Morgan Le Fey?" he inquires.

It isn't a question. It's an introduction.

He continues, "The name of Morgan Le Fey should instantly remind you of who this school is named after. Morgana College, named after Morgan Le Fey. She lived in the same era as Merlin." Then he slows to a stop in his pace. "How many of you heard of how Merlin fell into a deep sleep because of a spell cast by Viviane, the Lady of the Lake?"

Hermione, of course, knows the legend.

Viviane, the Lady of the Lake, is both a figure of good and evil in King Arthur's legends. She supposedly cursed Merlin to fall into a deep sleep and kept him for eternity. The sword of King Arthur applies to her.

"Morgan Le Fey is one of the best Legilimens of that time. She is not the founder of Legilimency, but her expansion of Legilimency is considered fundamental. You've all been learning her methods whether you've been taking Occlumency of Legilimency. Merlin is the second best Legilimens and Occlumens with Le Fey being the first Occlumen. Towards the end of Merlin's life, Morgan Le Fey dualed with Merlin. She used Legilimency on him, and Merlin countered her attack with a reflective shield. He entered her mind unprepared. Morgan was able to use a sticky memory to imprison his psyche. Merlin lost the duel that day. King Arthur's men found Merlin, hoped for a cure, took him to see the Lady of the Lake, and weren't able to save him. There was a body with a beating heart, but there was not a conscious to save."

He pauses, his dark eyes landing on Hermione.

She tilts her head slightly. It's strange how aged he appears to be. Black circles under his eyes, and his skin, far too pale.

Quietly, he adds, "The Lady of the Lake placed him in her web, letting him live for as long as his body can hold. But without the psyche, there is just a corpse."

She raises her hand. "What happened to Merlin's psyche?"

"Morgan had it. When she died, Merlin died as well," he replies.

She can't help but wonder if there's a warning in there. The next two months, Professor Riddle doesn't attend class. Instead, there's a substitute.

When she asked of Professor Riddle's whereabouts, the sub tells her to keep focusing on classes. "Professor Riddle will be back shortly," Miss Umbridge says sweetly. Hermione resists the painful urge to smack her across the face.

 _IV._

Her temporary advisor meets up with her on Thanksgiving Eve. Narcissa Malfoy. She never thought that Draco's mother would do anything but sit and look pretty. She would have never thought that Narcissa Malfoy would be one of the top Occlumens in Great Britain. But yet, here she is.

Narcissa Malfoy looks through her credits. She coldly notes, "Well, Miss Granger, you only need to take an independent Legilimency course in your final semester. Morgana College will need you to perform both Legilimency and Occlumency for you to qualify for your degree."

Hermione folds her hands tightly underneath the table. "But independent? No professor oversight?"

Malfoy admits, "Typically, your advisor will be overwatching your independent coursework, but due to some problems, he's unable to advise you."

"Wait, what?" Hermione blinks.

Malfoy continues on, as if she hasn't heard Hermione. "You'll need to pace yourself. To pass the independent courses, you must demonstrate both Legilimency and Occlumency at the professional level." She stands up and nods. "Good day, Miss Granger. I advise you to start on your independent coursework right away."

 _V._

At the Weasley's burrow, Christmas brings cheer and joy. She watches with a grin as Ginny and Harry kiss (at last!) underneath the mistletoe. Hermione throws her book aside when Percy appears in the fireplace. "Percy," she says in excitement.

He lifts his head, taken aback. He look at her warily. "Yes, Hermione?"

"I'm in my fourth year, about to graduate," she begins.

"And you need to do independent study to show that you qualify for a degree. Perhaps with distinction in honors," he finishes, nodding. "Occlumency, right?"

She gives him a meek smile. "Occlumency and Legilimency. I have enough credit to graduate with both degrees. Narcissa Malfoy says I need to prove my capabilities in Legilimency and Occlumency."

"I had a classmate. Might have heard of him. Marcus Finch, bit of a hardhead, but perhaps that's what makes him exceptionally good at Occlumency," he says.

Hermione blinks. Did Percy. . .?

Percy runs his hand awkwardly through his flaming red hair. "For independent coursework, he did something a bit illegal. He joined a gang called the Crossroad Knights. Heard of them, Hermione?"

She nods, eyes widening. The Crossroad Knights were once a terror until two years ago. They did everything from torture to murder, from rape to beatings, from vandalism to thefts. Their prowling grounds were London. They played with Muggles for their own amusements.

"Finch went undercover. The leader of Crossroad Knights, Bellatrix Black, is known to be gifted with Legilimency. For three months, she couldn't tell that he was not a true Knight. Finch worked to pass information about their next hits to the Aurors. The Aurors didn't know he was the mole in the Crossroad Knights when the Aurors took them down in one sweep. Held him in interrogation for three months with almost every Legilimens trying to pry open his mind. He withstood all of that. Bellatrix Black collapsed under Legilimency in two days. Finch never broke at all."

Her mouth falls open. There's no way she could do any of that. None at all.

"He probably wouldn't have survived under Tom Riddle's Legilimency, but Riddle was in Russia for the Ministry on some other business," he tells her. "When Riddle came back and heard about it, Riddle gave him Exceeds Expectation for his work. The Aurors released him after Finch gave them copies of his memories and his promise to testify."

"He graduated?"

"Graduated with the highest honors in Occlumency and with Order of Merlin. First class. Heard he now works for the Aurors as an undercover agent." He pauses. "Your best bet is heal someone using Legilimency. It'll be enough to show you know what you're doing."

 _VI._

Since their fifth year, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Neville go to St. Mungo's to visit his parents. They're both Aurors, and a strange curse has affected their minds severely. They shift personalities every ten minutes, taking on new personas and never recognizing their own son or each other even.

She has already explained to Neville what she's going to try.

He shrugs. "We never tried Legilimency before." He pats her shoulder. "But I trust you. Be careful."

To Harry, Hermione says, "This might be stupid. And reckless!" She can't believe she has even suggested this in the first place. She's not even a real Legilimen for Merlin's sake.

"Come on, Hermione. If a Legilimen can break through, it'll be you," says Ron, shutting the door behind him. "Besides, it's not like it can get any worse." He looks at Neville's father, who is eating through the bedsheets as if there's no tomorrow.

Ginny steps on his toe, not-so-gently.

Ron pales. "I'll shut up now."

Hermione breathes in a sigh and points her wand at Alice Longbottom. With a whisper and a look into Alice's manic eyes, she slips inside.

 _VII._

Alice Longbottom's mind is not the first she has ever visited. She has ventured into plenty of her classmates' minds. She has even popped into Harry's, Ron's, and Ginny's by pure accident. For some reason, she seems to be more prone to wander through minds after practicing it so many times. If she lets herself relax, she could even pick up stray thoughts from people around her. It's surprising how little protection people have around their minds.

But she knows that minds have their own laws. The trick to successfully traveling throughout a mind is to understand it.

 _Empathy._

As what Professor Riddle once said.

But this one. . . Alice's mind.

No order. No sense of control.

Yes, she can feel Alice's disoriented psyche. But the damage to it is like nothing she has ever encountered. It is surrounded by constant waves of anxiety, panic, and disorder. Every few seconds, Hermione can feel a shift in the environment. As if she Apparated from a forest to the middle of the ocean. Then from the water to the desert. Never quite, settled in one place.

But that's not all.

Alice's mind is small, crammed into one space. Hermione passes by splinters of memories. They're not even complete. Just part of something. Like a smell of roses. A sensual touch. The cool winter air. A man's laughter.

Instinctively, Hermione ties the memories together. But something's still missing. Like the memory is there but not whole.

She finds Alice's husbands in a splinter. Connects that piece with the memory she's forming. And then, something ignites. Like recognition, perhaps. Splinters starts coming towards her. They begin to piece together, section by section.

Then Hermione plays out the memory in whole.

The night in Paris. Alice Longbottom dressed in only a thin nightgown. Following the path of rose petals. Touching the naked back of her husband.

Hermione tugs the memory along and plants it close to where Alice's psyche should be. _Alice_ , she calls out. _Where are you?_

Something responds, just a poke. Small.

It's only a remnant of her psyche. Shredded to nearly beyond recognition. It's not the only one. Hermione, sensing and opening herself. Lowering her shields, just slightly. She can see it now. Alice's psyche is still there. Just broken into pieces. Scattered throughout her mind.

Hermione's heart sinks. She can fixed memories, manipulate them, and put them together again. But a psyche is on a whole new level. This is the conscious. Tearing a person apart is so much easier than building them back up.

The remnant moves closer to Hermione, as if wary but not quite afraid. It has no words but emotions. This one is filled with sadness and anxiety. Then it strangely moves closer to the Paris memory Hermione fixed. It dives straight into the memory, seemingly sheltered and cocooned. Resting. Hermione brushes it.

No sadness anymore. Just peace.

Perhaps that's the only way she can do anything for Alice. Building up her memories and slowly working towards order.

Hermione quickly fixes up several more memories of Alice's relationship with her husband. This is what they were like. Before they were cursed.

And like a beckon, these bright and happy memories draw remnants to their side and swallow them up. Just as Hermione leave Alice's broken mind, she could have sworn that two remnants merged into one.

For the first time, Hermione truly feels hope.

 _VIII._

"So how did it go?"

"Progress is so slow," she tells Neville. "But something's there. Just broken."

Neville looks at his mother, her eyes not glinting crazily. It's more muted, drawn back. "They say she was one of the most willful Aurors of her generation before the curse. Even _Imperio_ doesn't work on her."

Hermione nods, slowly. She doesn't tell Neville of what she saw in there. That maybe Alice's mind could heal on its own.

 _IX._

Hermione leaves them in the hospital room for some tea. She replays the memories of what she did in Alice's mind. Can't help but wonder if all Alice needed was just a push. Just wondering if a snowball push is enough towards healing.

She barely notices when a pale hand suddenly snatches her wand straight out of her pockets. She glances up, her fingers trying to capture her lost wand. Her mouth drops in shock.

"Pretty girl," his voice says nasally.

A disturbing Professor Riddle points her own wand at her. Dressed in a hospital gown with messy hair, he appears to be more a vampire than an actual human. With an ugly smirk, he casts, " _Legilimens_!"

She supposes it's ironic that it's Professor Riddle who taught her how to rebound the spell as a form of Occlumency. Instead of Riddle entering her mind, she enters his. The last thing she feels is her body collapsing right across the table.

He has taught her too well, she supposes.

Second A/N: You know I intended to write only three parts? Yeah, no. This is so bloody tragic. I thought it was only going to be this much, but. . . Hahahahahaha. Also. . . XD The title for the next chapter is called "Origins." Hint, hint.


	4. Origins

A/N: Here we go. Hopefully, the fourth part of this thing. Might add more in the future, lmao. We'll see. This is also a continuation. Also, I have no idea what exactly is the time of this thing. Somewhere in the 2000s, I guess? I'll leave it ambiguous. Dang. I don't think Harry and Hermione and everyone were born on the canon birthdate. Lol, oh well. Ambiguous, it is!

And I changed the work to be more open-ended. Not completed. I need to do the same for the , but I'll do it way later. It's still registered as complete work.

Yes. . . I'm pretty sure there's a 5th part. It's surprising how much there is to write for "Origins." Gosh. . . I love it.

 _I._

She doesn't recognize the psyche. He has dark hair, yes, but his mannerisms are not Professor Riddle's. He furiously licks his own lips, as if trying to eat them. When he sees Hermione flying at him with the intention of smacking him down, he roars in rage. "Bloody Legilimens! Both of you!" He grapples Hermione, shoving her away.

Hermione deftly avoids his grasp. She slips out of them and picks up some of Professor Riddle's memories, throwing them at him. Mundane memories, too. She smirks with satisfaction when they all hit. _Enjoy being in class_ , she thinks with dark pleasure. He doesn't have the finesse of an actual Legilimens. Instead, he bundles through the mind awkwardly. Somewhat practiced, but mostly awful. Nevertheless, he possesses strength.

He shoves those memories aside and rush her.

Too much strength.

Hermione's eyes widen. It's quite disturbing how powerful his presence is. Or rather, his psyche is. This. . . can't be Professor Riddle, can it? It's been years since she has seen Professor Riddle's psyche, and that was while she wasn't a true Legilimen.

She runs through the memories, towards Professor Riddle's core. The stronghold of the psyche. The one place that houses the older memories. But also the more powerful ones. Perfect for sticky memories.

She stops next to a memory that reeks of calmness. Then she glances back at the angry psyche stalking her. Seems perfect.

 _Hey, dumbass_ , she screams. A part of realize this is the equivalent of waving a huge red flag in front of a charging bull. Smart. Just smart.

Instead of withdrawing and focusing, she expands her presence and thins herself out. Like how a white blood cell engulfs a foreign agent, she wraps herself around the psyche and pulls him into one of the oldest memories of Professor Riddle.

 _II._

She tightens her hold around the squirming psyche as they live through Professor Riddle's childhood. With his eyes, they see. With his ears, they hear. With his touch, they feel. Everything. Every brush of the wind, every gentle movement of the breeze. The sun on their skin. On Tom's skin.

The caseworker knocks on the white double doors of an expensive peach-colored home with brick walls. It's beyond anything Hermione can afford. From the carefully trimmed white roses to the freshly painted mailbox, Tom is tempted to run far, far away. In a soft voice, he says, "He doesn't want me here. I know it."

The caseworker, Miss Prism, blinks at him. "Now, Tom. You wouldn't know that."

"He knew about me since I was born, doesn't he?" Tom replies, crossing his arms over his chest. "Then why didn't he get me? Take me out of the foster care? That's eight years of knowing. Eight years of inaction."

"Oh, Tom."

"Does it matter? He already has a perfect son. No need to think about the bastard son," he spits. His voice, his words thicken in a way she has never heard. Reflective of whatever background he came from.

A handsome, dark-haired man opens the door. He so clearly is Tom's father. The same built. The same appearance. Except for the eyes. This man possesses light blue eyes, a sharp contrast to Tom's dark eyes. He looks at the caseworker first and then pales when he examines Tom's face. He takes a slow step backwards. "Is that. . .?" he breathe shakily.

"Mr. Tom Riddle?" says Miss Prism, her hand adjusting her poofy blonde hair. "Would that be you?" It's highly doubtful she needs any confirmation. The boy looks so similar to the man in the doorway. It's unmistakable.

"Yes," he replies weakly. He opens the door wider. "Come in, I suppose." His hands are shaking, and he swallows hard.

They sit awkwardly around the coffee table in the living room. Tom's biological father fidgets with his hands, as if unclear where to place them. Miss Prism has her briefcase open on the table. She peers through Tom's folder, and she says, "Your former wife, Merope Gaunt, died before the divorce papers were finalized."

"It was a mistake," he blurts out.

Miss Prism ignores him. "Doesn't matter. What happens, happens. What matters is now. You have a son in foster care. Any time my office attempted to make contact with you, you never respond."

"I was mad."

The caseworker ignores that too. "From our records, it says you have a younger son named Gabriel Riddle from your second marriage. Your second wife died two years after Gabriel's birth in a car accident. You have been a single father ever since she died."

"I don't know how I felt the way I felt. If you would understand. . ."

Miss Prism finally looks up. "Mr. Riddle," she begins, in a soft voice. "What was in the past is in the past. There's a boy here moving from foster home to foster home. He's not well-adjusted and he is troublesome, but he's cleverer than most. For better or worse, he's your son. He may be half of Merope Gaunt, but he's also half of you. This is your child."

"She never asked if I wanted any of this. She. . . took what she wanted."

In Tom's eyes, the man looks painfully vulnerable. Weak. Even desperate, trapped in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. As if he's collapsing under the weight of the past and unable to move forward, to push on.

"Look, Mr. Riddle. Your first wife did put Tom under adoption. She never told the caseworker what you wanted. It was only until six months ago, when I did a check up on Tom's case when I found that you were—"

"Dad?" says a voice. It's a younger boy. A soft version of Tom. His light blue eyes are focused on Tom's, and he asks, "Who is that?"

"This is Tom," introduces Miss Prism, her hand gesturing to Tom on her left. Her red fingernails tap on Tom's file. "Your older brother."

Gabriel frowns with confusion. "I don't have a brother."

"A long lost, older brother. Now found," adds Miss Prism.

To Tom's surprise, Gabriel's eyes lights up. "I've always wanted a brother!"

And that is the moment Mr. Riddle caves. That is the moment when Tom knew he was going to stay with his biological father.

Hermione tightens her hold around the psyche, who is just as enraptured by the memory as she is. She watches as Tom, completely confused, is dragged by Gabriel to his bedroom. Tom sits on the white carpets as Gabriel talks on and on and on and shows Tom his impressive Pokemon card collection. He asks hundreds of questions but never waits for an answer.

 _III._

Mr. Riddle always avoids Tom. But Gabriel, on the other hand, clings to him like a shadow. They go everywhere together. To school, to the candy shop, to the park. Gabriel walks, and Tom follows. If he asks himself why, he would suppose it's because he has nothing better to do. But perhaps, it's also jealousy as well. Gabriel, who is capable of drawing teachers to love him. Gabriel, who could get free candy from the shop. Gabriel, who is always invited to play tag with the other kids on the playground.

Then there's Tom. Tom, who is praised by his teachers for being brilliant and ahead of his peers but not loved. Tom, who is asked if he would want a receipt for that purchase. Tom, who is almost never invited. He was invited once, but he declined. They never asked him again.

One night, he gets up from the bunk below Gabriel's for a glass of water in the kitchen. Mr. Riddle sits at the dining table, staring pensively at the empty bottle of scotch. He sees Tom, and he doesn't say a word.

With the hair on the back of his neck standing, Tom reaches for a glass in the cupboard by stepping on a chair and then fill it up with tap water. He takes a sip.

"Figures she names you Tom Marvolo Riddle," he mutters.

"What?" Tom blinks.

"Tom, after your father. Marvolo, after your grandfather." He pushes away the empty scotch. "It's one of those poetic things she liked."

She. . . his mother. His very dead mother.

Tom's throat dries. Here she is, alive in Mr. Riddle's deepest memories, only brought out by the wandering thoughts of a drunk man.

He carefully asks, "Did you. . . ever love her?"

Mr. Riddle stares at the bottle, blankly. "I suppose I must have at some point. But it seemed just like a dream. I went crazy for Merope, but I didn't have any control over anything I was. . ." He glances helplessly at Tom, and then a light goes off in his head. "Why am I even telling you this? You should be in bed. It's after midnight."

Tom, very much aware of Mr. Riddle's towering frame, is escorted back to bed.

"Daddy," whispers Gabriel from the top of the bed. He groggily rubs his eyes and yawns. "Is it morning yet?"

"No," Mr. Riddle whispers. "Go back to sleep."

"I need to pee."

Mr. Riddle helps Gabriel down the ladder and then leans against the wall while he waits for Gabriel to finish his business. Gabriel trots back to the bunk bed. Picking up Gabriel by the armpits, Mr. Riddle places him on the second step of the ladder. "Here you go, buddy." He places a quick kiss on the back of Gabriel's head.

Once Gabriel is safely tucked, Mr. Riddle turns towards the door.

"Daddy."

The single word stops the man in his tracks. "Yes, Gabriel?"

"Does Tom get a kiss as well?"

After a long moment of hesitation and perhaps even thoughtfulness as well, Mr. Riddle gently kisses goodnight on Tom's forehead. Then he leaves the bedroom's door slightly ajar.

 _IV._

If there's a reason why Tom integrated into the Riddle household so well, it would be because of Gabriel Riddle. Gabriel, always open and at ease. The more time Gabriel spent with Tom, the less jealous Tom became until Gabriel is the closest—and only—friend Tom has. The more time he spent with Gabriel, the more time he also spent with Mr. Riddle as well.

And Gabriel manages to get the other children to ask Tom if he wants to play tag. But Tom always declined.

When Tom is a day from being ten, Gabriel asks, "What is empathy?" The two brothers lay on top of their beds, unable to fall asleep at night.

Whenever there's a birthday, Mr. Riddle always buys cake.

"I don't know," replies Tom. After a moment of silence, Tom gets up from the bed and reaches for the dictionary on the bookshelf. Under the bright moonlight of the full moon, he searches for the word and reads aloud, "Empathy. _Noun_. The ability to understand and share the feelings of another." He quietly places the book back onto the shelf.

"Frank says I have a lot of empathy yesterday," announces Gabriel.

Frank is right.

Gabriel does understand people. Much more than most. It's a strong contrast between them. Tom, the erudite, extremely knowledgeable—or at least, curious—child. Then there is Gabriel, the one who connects emotionally with everyone.

Empathy.

It's a strange word for an equally strange thing.

"You could genuinely connect to people and understand them," says Tom. It's the same thing Gabriel did with him. Tom makes a silent promise to himself to learn how Gabriel does it. He yawns. Maybe in the morning.

 _V._

"Tom, you want to play?"

He nods.

The girl touches him on the shoulder, face grinning devilishly. "You're it!"

It's a fun game to play. The exhilaration of running, of tagging someone, of fleeing away from the monstrous hands of it. He has no idea why he never played before.

 _VI._

Gabriel slowly picks up the dirty-brown garden snake out of the rosebushes. He beckons Tom closer. "I have seen him, but I've never been this close."

The two children crouch down, hidden behind the carefully pruned rosebushes. Gabriel gently pets the snake, following the scales.

"Her," says Tom. "It's a her."

Gabriel blinks in surprise. "How do you know?"

Tom shrugs. He doesn't know, but he can tell it's a female snake. Not a male. He isn't sure if he is imagining it, but he hears the snake softly whisper _hi_. Then it wiggles briefly in Gabriel's hand. Gabriel, as if sensing the snake's wishes, sets it down and lets it slither out towards the distance.

 _VII._

Mr. Riddle has set the table for dinner one night. While the boys are chatting about the recent developments in their neighbor's backyard (they're building a pool!), Mr. Riddle accidentally jostles his elbow against his untouched but open wine bottle. It falls to the marble floors, shattering on impact.

White fluid spills. An overwhelming smell of alcohol quickly overtakes the natural rose scent.

Mr. Riddle springs into action. He moves aside the chair and bends down. "Gabriel, get a baggie from the kitchen."

"Yes, Daddy," replies Gabriel, running off for a bag. Tom, almost instinctively, grabs napkins off the table and begins to pile it on top of the liquid.

Mr. Riddle quickly begins to move the glass pieces closer to each other. He hisses as he slices his own finger across a jagged glass piece. Blood quickly begins to flow, seeping to the floor and mixing with the wine.

"Tom," Mr. Riddle starts. He quickly wraps a napkin around his bloody cut. Tom's eyes stare at the dripping blood, enraptured. Blood is life. And Mr. Riddle is losing his blood. Tom's heart pounds loudly, and he doesn't know what is happening, but he could have sworn that the massive cut has started closing the moment he ran for the first aid kit.

When he comes back, he sets down the first aid kit on the ground. He pulls out a bandaid and holds it out to his father. There's dried blood on his finger, yes. But when Mr. Riddle searches for the telltale break in his skin, there isn't one.

Father and son look at each other in bewilderment.

 _VIII._

Three months before his eleventh birthday, Gabriel's and Tom's grandparents came down from Manchester to visit them. The doorbell rings, and Mr. Riddle goes to open the door. His parents hug him tightly, cheerily shouting greetings and wishes. Then Mr. Riddle's mother stops in her tracks when she sees Tom.

She pales. "Is that. . .?"

"Merope's son. His name is Tom," confirms Mr. Riddle.

"After all this time?"

He nods. "He's my son." There's a tone of acceptance, of finality.

That's when Tom is furiously hugged by Grandma. She clutches the sides of his face and says, "Oh, my darling. You look just like your father."

 _IX._

"He's a what?" Mr. Riddle blinks incredulously at the bearded man standing in the midst of his living room. "Repeat that again?"

"A wizard," says Professor Dumbledore.

"Was. . . Merope Gaunt a witch then?" he inquires.

Dumbledore shakes his head. "She was a squib. She's not capable of magic, but she is descended from witches and wizards."

Confusion clouds Mr. Riddle's face. Then he shakes his head, a polite smile descending upon his face. "But where exactly is Tom going?"

"Hogwarts," Dumbledore replies, a twinkle in his eyes. "A school for witchcraft and wizardry, Mr. Riddle. One of the best schools for magic."

Where Mr. Riddle is completely apprehensive about the school, Tom cautiously whispers, "Prove it. Prove this isn't a joke at all."

Dumbledore, picking up a carnation from the vase, runs his left hand over its body. It shifts quickly into a colorful lizard.

"Wicked," says Gabriel, his eyes bright with fascination. Only Gabriel, only Gabriel. A hand slowly touches the lizard's head. "It even feels real."

"It's called Transfiguration," he says.

"But I have magic?" asks Tom. "Do I?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkle once again. "Has anything strange ever happened to you? Something that is impossible or improbable? Has anything happened whenever you were upset or angry?"

He remembers his tantrums back in the foster systems all of the sudden. The strong, improbable events that were quickly dismissed as nothing but a figment of imagination. His father's deep cut from glass. Talking to snakes. What if they were all because of magic? What if?

 _X._

On the train, he sits in a simple white shirt and jeans as he reads through a textbook about potion-making. He's not quite sure what to expect. A wand with a phoenix feather core is tucked into his pocket, and he squints as he tries to understand what half of these things even mean. Cauldron? Some oddly-named squid eyeball? Stir counterclockwise six times and then stir the other way for exactly two times at the same pace. Then let it sit still for two hours.

The compartment door slides open, and a red-haired boy comes in. He's dressed in his black robes, his face slightly pale. Politely, he gestures to the empty seats across from Tom. "Those taken?"

Tom shakes his head.

The boy quietly settles in the seat. His eyes land on the book Tom's reading. "First year?"

He nods. "First year," he confirms. "Tom Riddle."

The two boys shake hands. His hand is firm and steady despite the anxiety he emits. They take back their hands.

"Charlie Weasley." A pause. "What house do you reckon you'll get into?"

Tom has already read all about the houses from _Hogwarts: A History_. Gryffindor, bravery and courage. Ravenclaw, intelligence and wit. Slytherin, cunning and ambition. Hufflepuff, loyalty and friendship.

He knows he won't be in Gryffindor. It sounds more like a house for reckless behavior than for actual bravery. He could remember the older children who taunted the smaller children back in foster care. They never bothered him after the weird snake incident, in which a venomous snake bit Tom's tormentor in the shoulder. But he always saw whenever they are bullying the other kids. Standing up to them, facing them out with bravery was—and still is—absolute foolishness. It's borderline suicide.

Cunning, ambition. Slytherin. He could easily see himself there. As easily as he can see himself in Ravenclaw. But Hufflepuff. Loyalty and friendship. For some reason, it brings about images of his own brother. Gabriel with loads of empathy. Gabriel, who would be accepted into Hufflepuff without a single millisecond of doubt.

Tom shrugs. "I don't know."

"My whole family is in Gryffindor," Charlie says. "Wonder if I'll end up in Gryffindor as well. I don't feel. . . brave or anything."

A pause. Then Tom, after a moment of choosing his words carefully and then ending up to go with his gut, tells him, "I think it's in the blood."

Charlie nods. "I hope so. Merlin forbid I end up in Hufflepuff."

Tom blinks. "What's wrong with Hufflepuff?"

His voice drops into a whisper. "Bill, my brother. . . He's older than me by two years. Third year right now. In Gryffindor. But if I end up anywhere but Gryffindor, I'll never hear the end of it from him."

"Who cares what other people think?" Tom replies, raising an eyebrow and looking at him from behind the covers of the textbook. "All that matters is your own opinion of yourself, right?"

"Right."

 _XI._

"Riddle, Tom!"

Tom releases a long breath he didn't realize he has been holding. He makes his way slowly to Professor McGonagall and sits on the wobbly wooden stool. The hat is dropped onto his head, and Tom waits.

 _Tom Riddle, interesting mind_ , whispers a voice. _You have plenty of potential. A lot of will and a desire to learn. Maybe even a desire to experiment and to perfect ideas. Perhaps Ravenclaw would be right for you?_

Tom glances around. The voice. . . The sorting hat's voice is coming from within his head. No one else can hear anything.

 _But also possessing empathy as well, to attempt to understand human nature. Perhaps it would be Hufflepuff?_

The hat pauses.

 _Possessing courage to do what doesn't come easily for you, Tom. Opening up to people. If you let yourself be willing, you'll find a lot of friends here at Hogwarts._

"And," he asks.

 _Blood of your forefather, blood of your mother. The founder's wishes to see his heirs in his house. You will fit well in there as well._

"Forefather?" he whispers.

The hat doesn't respond to that.

 _You would do equally well in all houses, Tom Riddle. Gryffindor, home of bravery and courage. Ravenclaw, nurturer of intelligent minds and creator of tomorrow's thinkers. Hufflepuff, den of friendship, understanding, and above all, loyalty. Or Slytherin, as what Salazar Slytherin would want me to put you in._

Tom doesn't know what to say to that. Forefather? As in. . . this Salazar Slytherin is his ancestor from many, many generations? He has read the history books, read all about Salazar Slytherin and his noble, pure blood. His somewhat peculiar obsession with blood purity, though each of his heirs has apparently taken it to more extreme degrees or so it is written.

Magical blood, that is.

When he read that section on the so-called "blood purity," the very taste in his mouth turns bitter with disgust. Muggles. Non-magicals. Like his father. Like Gabriel. Like Frank. Like all of Gabriel's friends. What exactly makes wizards so much better than Muggles?

The sorting hat picks up on his thoughts. _Fascinating. Like all of your grandfathers and grandmothers and ancestors before you. . ._

"SLYTHERIN!"

It was nearly a hatstall.

Second A/N: I swear, Gabriel is secretly a Canadian and is trying to kill people with kindness. That's all I can say. Next part is coming up. Currently writing it. I hope this is a direction you like.

And what is the point of Gabriel? I kind of wanted someone who is a really, really soft teddy bear, too pure for the world. I live for sane!Tom.


	5. Hogwarts

A/N: The fifth part, yay. Remember when I thought it was only going to be three? Hahahaha, no. FML, right now. At least, I'm done with my finals. Phew. I don't know how I survived that week without tea, tea, and more tea. Basically, tea. (Yay, green tea! Give me some!) The questions on the finals were. . . HUH? But thank goodness, it's over! It's all out of my hands at this point.

The title for this. . . What is this? A chapter? A follow-up drabble? Hmmm. . . Anyway, it's called "Hogwarts."

 _I._

It's not easy being in Slytherin.

"Riddle?" says one of the upperclassmen girls. She wrinkles her nose in disgust. "That's obviously a Muggle surname. Looks like we have a little Mudblood in our house." She flips her dark black hair over her back and then walks on to examine the next first year she sees, scrutinizing his bloodline as well and tearing it into pieces. After all, her blood purity is better than most and she doesn't hesitate in using this so-called status to hurt.

Tom narrows his eyes. He will have to remember her name. Bellatrix Black, seventh year.

He gets up from the armchair with the textbook tucked under his armpit. The library, the beautiful and extensive collection of books Tom has never read before, has become his haven. He has noted the presence of the Restricted Section, but he figures that he won't read any of the books in it. At least, not yet. It requires the signature of a professor, and he doesn't know a single professor unless he counts Dumbledore, the Headmaster. He doubts he can easily request permission for the Restricted Section.

He pauses when he sees Charlie Weasley surrounded by stacks of books. After a moment of consideration, he quietly saunders over to Charlie and examines the titles. Magical beasts seems to be the running theme.

"Hi, Charlie." Tom gestures towards the empty seat across the table. "Mind if I sit here?"

Charlie shakes his head. "Go ahead, Riddle."

Tom sits down and opens his textbook. Begins reading about the six major ways to thoroughly clean a cauldron after brewing an extremely acidic potion. A minute of silence goes by before Tom clears his throat.

"I hate the concept of blood purity," Tom announces.

"Slytherin is obsessed with blood purity," Charlie whispers back.

"Called me a Mudblood. I'm not welcome there."

Charlie, his face thoughtful, then replies, "I wouldn't care what other people think."

Tom smiles. "Fair point."

 _II._

It helps that Charlie is in some of Tom's classes. They sit together in the back of Professor Snape's potion class, always pretending to be paying lots of attention to his lectures. But really, they finish some procrastinated homework from Charms in Potions. Charms starts ten minutes after the end of Potions. Tucked in between many cauldrons, Charlie doesn't remove his eyes from the problem as he casually tosses in chopped feathers.

"It has to be a sharp jab movement. It seems like that, doesn't it?"

Tom gives a polite glance over Charlie's cauldron, which is turning into a hideous shade of pink. "A pinch more."

"Oh, bollocks. Thanks." Charlie sprinkles a pinch. "But what do you think? Jab?"

"To lift up an object magically?" Tom frowns, his shoulders shrugging. "I don't know. Jab seems more like a movement used to set something on fire. Or to poke someone's eye out."

In none of their classes, they have used a wand yet. It's only a matter of time, but it seems pointless to carry a wand around without knowing how it even works.

Running his hand through his bright red hair in frustration, Charlie mutters, "Maybe I want to lift someone's eye out." His hand tightens around his quill.

Well, there's also that.

Tom glances up and sees Professor Snape with his terrible greasy black hair coming over. He hisses, "Charlie!" Then he masks his expressions with the most polite smile he could muster. "Good evening, Professor."

With his stuffed parchment in his lap, Charlie nods respectfully. "Good evening, Professor Snape." He quickly peeks into his cauldron and lets a quiet sigh of relief when it's the correct shade of pink. Just like Tom's.

Finding not a single error in either cauldrons, Professor Snape walks away without a single word. At the next table, Professor Snape quickly and ruthlessly rips into a Gryffindor's muddy-brown potion and reduces her to tears.

 _III._

The memory spits them out. The psyche chuckles gleefully in pleasure. Hermione, remembering herself, tightens the hold on the psyche. Struggling to contain him, she quickly tries to pull them into yet another one of Riddle's older memories.

The psyche groans in protest.

But after several yanks, they disappear into that memory.

Sticky memory. She needs a sticky, or at least, a looping memory. She can't contain him or distract him forever.

She needs to buy more time. To contain him fully.

 _IV._

A much older Charlie Weasley stands in the corridors of Hogwarts in the dead of night. He nods at him solemnly. "Ready to do this?"

Hermione guess Charlie's probably in his fifth year or something. He looks like he's in his teens, not quite a man yet.

Tom returns a nod. "Been ready since Potions."

Charlie chuckles.

They head outside. They walk to the Forbidden Forest. They quietly stroll past the trees and the gleaming eyes in the darkness. They're careful enough to be holding their wands tightly in their pockets. Just in case. Just in case.

Then they feel Hogwarts' ward. They slip through the ward so they are just outside of it. Charlie shrugs off his burlap bag and reveals a simple sock. He then checks his watch and shows Tom the hands.

It's only five minutes before midnight.

Five minutes before the portkey activates.

If they get caught, Charlie and Tom will be stripped of their prefect badges. Not that Tom very much cares about being a prefect for his house. They only tolerate him slightly after he reveals he's only a halfblood, not really a Muggleborn. He supposes it slightly helps that he gets his own room, but it doesn't help that his Parkinson's cousin is next door and curses like sailor using the most expressive and descriptive language possible. Not to mention what he does at night.

Hogwarts has taught him many things about magic, but Tom has come to learn that the best things he knows are what he taught himself. Sometimes with the help of Charlie, as well. They both have ventured into the Restricted Section for informations they aren't supposed to know. Tom is particularly good at finding excuses to get Professor Snape to keep signing the permission form, not that Professor Snape actually cares what he's up to. Charlie's a bit more bumbling in his tactics with his book thievery in the dead of the night. But it works, nevertheless.

They've never been caught.

Unless Charlie's twin brothers. Tom himself had to dock points from them for their inexcusable behavior in the corridors. Both of them reek of trouble.

But it's amusing to watch when other prefects try to solve some sort of green ivy prank they left in the bathroom on the third floor. And of course, dungbombs on exam days. It's amazing how they haven't been forced to serve detention for an entire week.

He won't be surprised if they did serve a week-long detention. Well, they have six more years of trouble. Thank Merlin he would only be seeing them for another two years. Unless he visits the Weasleys on Christmas again. Then. . . Tom quickly pictures the one time all of his shirts were stained an unhealthy color of pale pink.

"It's time," says Charlie.

Tom grabs onto the sock, and off, they go.

 _V._

"Stuffed animals, stuffed animals! Dragons of all types." The seller glances at Charlie pointedly. He carries a heavy Russian accent, just switched to English briefly for Charlie and Tom. They look too British compared to the coat-wearing Russians next to them, Tom supposes.

Of course, Charlie moves closer to inspect the stuffed animals. Some of them are moving. He then shuffles backwards a bit and says, "The charms always wear off in two or three hours. Easier just to transform a stuffed animal into a fake dragon."

Tom raises his eyebrow. Now he knows what to get for Charlie for Christmas. Two months to figure out how to transform a stuffed animal into a miniature dragon. He has never tried it before, but it's probably similar to transforming objects into dogs, cats, or goldfishes.

They would have been freezing their bollocks off if it wasn't for their wandless heating charms. The Trace could probably pick them up hanging around in Moscow of all places. A thousand and five hundred miles away from where they're supposed to be. All to see the fiftieth anniversary of the Dragon Circus.

It's rumored there'll be the appearance of a rare Chinese Fireball. A subspecies that is only found high up in the mountains.

Whatever dragon appears, it's bound to be impressive.

And dangerous.

 _VI._

Charlie has pet, touched, and smelled almost every single dragon in sight. Tom, balking, only dares to touch the baby dragons. At least, they don't look quite so murderous as the full-grown dragons with spiked tails. They go in and out of many tents, Tom usually dragging Charlie to move on. If Charlie has it his way, he would be stuck forever in one tent. Just unable to move forward to the next dragon. He's so fascinated by each one.

Tom already has a feeling what Charlie wants to do for his career. He came out of Professor McGonagall's office with a dragon trainer brochure. And a curse-breaking brochure. He has always known that Charlie wanted to travel the world. Egypt seems to be his first destination.

He hasn't talked with Professor Snape yet about his career, but he figures that he will see him in the next week or so. Snape is slowly moving through the roster. Stuck on Ns as some Quidditch chaser has an ego problem and refuses to settle for anything less. Tom can't help but roll his eyes when he thinks of him.

It's absolutely ridiculous. What even is the point of professional Quidditch? Flying on broomstick and chasing things.

At least, he and Charlie agree on that.

Half of these dragons must be illegal to possess in the United Kingdom. Russia has no such laws, fortunately for Charlie.

A man speaks quick Russian, furiously spitting out words. Tom and Charlie stand among the crowd and wait for the thick fireproof drape to be dropped from the large cage. The extreme large, rattling cage. Tom can fear a tiny bit of fear. . . and maybe excitement as well.

He then gestures to the cage. At his cue, the drape falls and the dragon is breaks the bars of its cage in an angry show of dominance and strength.

 _VII._

"Ukrainian Ironbelly," Charlie whispers excitedly. "They say there are only two dozen left in the world. They had on here tonight!" Tucked in his hands are many, many stuffed dragons. Some of them are charmed, some of them are not. At this point, Charlie could look like a stuffed animal seller back in the circus. Maybe.

Tom pulls out the second portkey. This one is of a stuffed rabbit, barely the size of a baby's fist. Tom peeks over at Charlie's watch. Only three minutes until three. Great Britain's time, not Russia's. "Almost time to go, Weasley."

Charlie takes one last, mournful look at the flying dragon above. "Well, I'll see you all again. Hopefully soon."

Then they both head back to Hogwarts.

 _VIII._

They split off in separate directions. Charlie's off to Gryffindor Tower, and Tom heads down towards the dungeons. Tom briefly watches Charlie walk, wondering how he could possibly manage to hold all of those stuffed animals and still be able to grab onto the portkey. It takes some skills, alright.

Unfortunately for Tom, he runs into Professor Dumbledore down in the dungeons. He folds his lips into a polite smile and greets, "Good morning, Professor Dumbledore." Hopefully, he doesn't smell too much like the cold Russian winter, smoke, popcorn, and cheap cigars.

"What are you doing, Tom? You shouldn't be wandering the corridors at night," Professor Dumbledore says, raising his eyebrow.

Without even blinking, Tom smoothly replies, "I thought there was a disturbance. I was wrong."

Dumbledore pointedly runs his eyes over Tom's clothes. Black sweatpants with a somewhat thin gray hoodie. "I doubt you were on patrolling duty tonight. If I recall correctly, it was supposed to be Nott and Smith." Dumbledore then looks straight into Tom's dark eyes. It feels like something, or even _someone_ , is trying to claw into Tom's head. Searching for something. But that's impossible, isn't it?

Tom pushes back at the strange, foreign magic. No, he thinks, just _no. I will not let you in_. He shoves hard once again.

The magic recedes.

He gasps in shock, and even Professor Dumbledore looks slightly surprised. That's when Tom knew. That force, that mysterious pressure, must have been from the headmaster. But what is that magic? Tom quickly recovers, thinking fast on his feet for an excuse.

Tom coughs, perfectly knowing Nott's habits as a perfect. He decides to throw him under the bus. "Well, Professor Dumbledore. I'm not sure if you aware, but Nott likes to ditch his patrols and go to bed at one. Which was two hours ago. I would rather not leave Smith the sole watchmen. Smith has the tendency of accidentally falling asleep while standing. Sometimes, it's hard to tell if he's sleepwalking or patrolling. Or sleepwalking while patrolling."

"It seems I will need to have a chat with Nott."

He nods at the professor. "Good night, Professor Dumbledore."

 _IX._

Two weeks before Thanksgiving, Professor Snape calls Tom into his office for career advice and more. After shaking a polite hand to Professor Snape, Tom shuffles into the seat across from Snape. He casually greets, "Good evening, Professor Snape."

"So what do you want?" Snape's voice cuts sharply across. Snape has been dealing with finding a new prefect to replace Nott. He even has a list of potential prefects, but none of the the sixth years are willing to do much of anything.

He sits forward, pausing as if thinking carefully. But Tom has been prepared to ask Snape for a long, long time. "Professor, is it possible to learn how to defend yourself from mental attacks?"

Tom already knows what it is. But he wants Snape to say it. To see it, even. To acknowledge it. To prove that it is true, he supposes.

"Occlumency," he answers slowly. He snaps his finger, and a dusty brown brochure comes flying from the supply closet. Snape then tilts his head. "Are you looking into studying Occlumency, Mr. Riddle?"

"I think a lot about it," he admits.

"Then you would want to study Legilimency as well." A second brochure comes flying out. This one is a bright blue. Snape passes them both across his desk. "If you study one, you will need to study the other as well. There's no avoiding Legilimency when you study Occlumency. There's no avoiding Occlumency when you study Legilimency. Both arts are crucial to each other."

"Art?" Tom raises an eyebrow.

Snape ignores that. "Are you considering to attend an university after Hogwarts?"

He nods. Ever since he learned about universities, he knows that he will be continuing his education. Hogwarts alone is sufficient for most wizards and witches, but it is not sufficient to Tom. Learning more about magic, learning more about everything. . . It's never enough to know what he already knows.

"Merlin's University in London is opening its doors to extremely advanced students from Hogwarts this year." Snape pauses, "It's an observational study carried out by the Wizarding Development Division for the next two years. But you will be able to take classes there and perhaps have some university credit to whatever university you may attend later. With those credits, you may be able to graduate from whatever university sooner than your peers. But you will have a greater workload. You must take classes from Hogwarts and from Merlin's as well."

"How do I register?"

Within fifteen minutes, Tom has sent an application with his transcripts for the Hogwarts-Merlin's Advanced Students Bridge Program. After two days, they have accepted him. He's taking three classes from the university. Animal Transfiguration 103c, Defense Against the Dark Arts 105c, and Legilimency 100c.

Charlie has also been accepted into the program along with thirteen other students of different years. He's taking two: Animal Transfiguration 103c and Care of Magical Creatures 101c. They will be in the same class for Animal Transfiguration 103c.

 _X._

It's not so much of a surprise they both were able to be skip two years at their future universities with the increased amount of classes from Merlin's University and decreased amount from Hogwarts. By the second semester of their sixth year, Tom is only taking the required minimum for graduation. It helped he took so many classes in his underclassmen years at Hogwarts. He is also attending four classes from Merlin's University.

In his last year of Hogwarts, there's only one extracurricular class Tom has to take and that is Advanced Eurasian Potions. There are only six students in that class, made up of the the best and brightest seventh years.

Professor Slughorn, having come out of his retirement just to teach this specific class, says, "Open your books to page six hundred thirty-three."

Both Charlie and Tom exchange glances. They both flip the books open to the Lineage Potion. Tom, having read this book from cover to cover a long time ago, knows exactly what this potion does.

True to his usual teaching methods, Slughorn looks around the room with his grand mustache and inquire, "Does anyone know what the Lineage Potion does?"

Surprisingly, no one raises their hands.

Charlie pulls out a silver coin and throws it into the air. He catches it and flips it onto the back of his hand. Tails.

Tom then raises his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Riddle."

"The Lineage Potion has been used in Eurasian countries, especially in countries that possesses tribes, to determine the origins of a certain person. For example, if a mysterious baby is dropped on the doorsteps, the Lineage Potion could determine if the ancestors of the baby. It's said that certain material that the Lineage Potion is poured on could reveal more distant ancestors."

Slughorn nods, smiling. "You've done excellent reading, my dear boy. Ten points to Slytherin. It's a pleasure to see great minds coming out of Slytherin again."

Charlie, sitting next to him with the most cheesiest grin possible, quietly quotes, "' _It's a great pleasure to see_ —'"

Tom steps on his toe. Not so gently.

"Ow!"

"Are you alright, Mr. Weasley?" asks Slughorn.

Hermione wants to laugh. Of course, Slughorn can get Charlie's surname right, but he always conveniently doesn't get Ron's surname.

"Absolutely, sir." Charlie mutters out of the corner of his mouth. "Ass."

 _XI._

Outside, Charlie and Tom stand in line to wait for their turn to the sandbox. The extremely large sandbox. If the Lineage Potion is made correctly, it could go back thirty generations. Or more. Slughorn's sandbox could increase in size, but he hasn't seen it yet. The highest number of generations so far is twenty-two.

Slughorn's record is apparently twenty-four.

Then it's Charlie's turn.

Gripping onto his potion, Tom mutters, "Maybe you'll find something shocking. Like your grandmother turns out to be Professor Snape."

Charlie whispers back, "Oh, shut it, Riddle."

"Maybe your cousin."

Slughorn clears away the previous Lineage Potion away. "Weasley, you may go ahead. I expect the full and extensive record of the Weasley family."

Charlie pours into the sandbox and then steps back. The class quietly watches as sand begins to rearrange themselves to reveal Charlie's lineage. The name, _Charlie Weasley_ , is written delicately close to the northern edge of the sandbox along with his birthdate. No death date is given. Then lines draw themselves in two directions: _Molly Weasley_ and _Arthur Weasley_. One generation. Two lines extend from both of Charlie's parents. The four grandparents. Two generations. Then the eight great-grandparents. Three generations.

The sand keeps shifting away, flowing into words and lines. Quicker and quicker now, as it searches deep into Charlie's blood for the truth. Five, ten, fifteen. . . It slows on seventeen, but then the potion picks up speed once again. Twenty, twenty-one. . .

The potion struggles to write all of the twenty-second generation above. Professor Slughorn cheerfully says, "Oh, Weasley, you're tied with Smith."

The Hufflepuff gives Charlie a polite nod.

The sand draws lines again from the twenty-second generations to make a twenty-third generation. The sand begins to shift to reveal names. The names are so thin that they looked as if they were carved from toothpicks.

"Twenty-three!" Slughorn says. He waves his wand, pointing it at the sandbox. Then he gestures towards a parchment where a quill begins to furiously write down names. "Twenty-three generations. Well done, Charlie."

Slughorn hands the scroll over to Charlie. "Well, Tom, you're up." He waves his wand at the sandbox. A wave of light brown sand wipes it clean and flat.

Tom pours his own Lineage Potion in.

It begins.

 _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ , with his birthdate written underneath. Exactly right where the name, _Charlie Weasley_ , was. Two lazy lines spread upwards. _Tom Riddle Sr._ and _Merope Gaunt_. His mother carries a day of death unlike his father's. One generation. Then it goes up towards grandparents. Tom's eyes lingers on _Marvolo Gaunt_ , his grandfather from his mother's side. So what his father said is true. Marvolo, after his grandmother. Tom, after his father.

It does seem. . . endearing in its way.

Tom nearly hurls when he sees a Nott twelve generations above. He scans the surnames from his mother's side. . . Malfoy, Black. . . There's even a Weasley in there, in the fifteenth generation.

He glances to his father's side, its lines extending back in time. Hundreds of names. Samuel, Gabriel, John. . . The fathers of fathers.

It slows right around the twenty-third generation. Then it stops. For a minute. It's done.

Slughorn peers at the sandbox. "Very good, Tom. Twenty-three generations. Just like Weas. . ." His voice breaks off.

Everyone watches as lines begin to extend once again. But it's only from one ancestor from his mother's side. Just two lines. A name is written. Then lines form again, going up. Instead of spreading out like tree branches, it keeps narrowing down. As if hunting. . . Two names out of all of Tom's ancestors in the twenty-fifth generation is written. From a woman, _Pearl Gaunt_ , comes one line. Going into the twenty-ninth generation.

Only one name is written this time. Just one. Tom's great-great-grandmother from long ago isn't included. But the great-great-grandmother is.

Just one name.

 _Salazar Slytherin_.

Tom could swear that his name is glowing a dim color of green.

"Well, my boy. Looks like being Slytherin is in your blood."

Second A/N: Oh, look. The fifth part. Hopefully, this isn't too boring, lol. Also, I think I went through his childhood a bit fast, but oh, well. K. Next part is coming up soon. That chapter is called, "Lineage."


	6. University

A/N: WHY? JUST FUCKING WHY? SOMEONE REMIND ME HOW THREE PARTS GOES INTO FUCKING SIX. OH, WAIT, IT MIGHT BE EVEN MORE AT THIS POINT. I'M SO FUCKING DOOMED. HIS LIFE IS SO COMPLICATED, LMAO. I'M SO DONE WITH THIS, BUT I'M REALLY NOT.

 _I._

He's the Heir of Slytherin. The Heir of Slytherin. He belongs more to Slytherin than anyone in his house. Even the most purest of blood, he belongs more to the house because he is of Slytherin himself. It's kind of. . . startling. After all, he is more of a black sheep to the rest of the Slytherins.

Charlie and Tom dive into the books about Slytherin. His history. Tom's history. The House of Gaunt. Its rise. . . and its fall.

There's this interesting section about the Chamber of Secrets. It's apparently a place hidden in the castle. Somewhere in the castle. A few hundred years ago, a horrible monster was released from the Chamber of Secrets to "purge" the castle of its Muggleborns. No one died, but a lot of people were petrified.

"Only a few monsters have the ability to petrify," says Charlie, no doubt the authority on magical creatures. He has read far more books on this subject than Tom ever had and will have. He points to the emblem on Tom's chests. "And only one is a snake."

He turns around a book on magical creatures. Open to one page. The basilisk.

Tom glances at its illustration. At its forest-green scales to its unnaturally yellow-colored eyes. The eyes. . . Look at them and witness death.

Petrification. Death by petrification. Made perfect in that moment one looks.

"That has to be in the Chamber of Secrets."

"But where is the Chamber of Secrets located?"

Neither of them know the answer to that.

 _II._

Like every Christmas before, Tom heads back home. To his father's country home, just a bit south of Wales. Unlike usual, Gabriel is not the first one to greet him at the door. Tom gives his father his greetings and says, "Happy Christmas, Dad." Then Tom shuts the front door behind him.

After putting a few presents underneath the Christmas tree, he heads upstairs to Gabriel's—and he supposes, his—room. It has been more Gabriel's than his, especially when he spends most of his time at Hogwarts. Gabriel is at his desk, the lamp turned on bright towards his thick textbook. He turns around at the sound of Tom's footsteps and smiles. "Hey, bro. Welcome home!"

The two brothers exchange hugs, and Tom gestures to the textbook. Gabriel nods. Tom then flips to the cover of the book Gabriel was studying. _Introduction to Psychology_. The eighth edition. A college textbook, far above what Gabriel should be studying in his current grade level. Gabriel is already two thirds into the book with extensive notes written in his black composition book. He has written this slanted. . . Left-handedly.

"Taking additional classes from the local college. They have a similar program to what you're doing, Tom," explains Gabriel. He smiles broadly. "Who knows? I might be placed as a sophomore in my college years for clearing so many classes."

Tom won't be surprised if that happens. If there's one thing Gabriel has in spades of, it's most certainly dedication. Dedication to hard work, to real effort. He would make an excellent Hufflepuff. Without a single doubt.

"How's it going?" he asks. "Psychology, huh?"

Gabriel's cheeks redden slightly. But still, he admits, "I'm considering to study psychology. It seems. . . interesting so far."

"What about accounting?" Accounting and law like their father. He owns a large estate planning law firm. And a few accounting firms as well. He has always expected Gabriel to go into business or something along the lines. But not psychology.

Gabriel shrugs. "Maybe double-major."

Tom lets out a breath. "If you do psychology, you'll need to go all the way to graduate school. There's no point in getting a bachelor's in psychology and not going any further." And there goes the end of his father's law firm. His grandfather's law firm as well. With Tom majoring in Legilimency and Occlumency at Morgana College, there's perhaps little to no chance that he'll follow his father. All hope is on Gabriel.

Then again, his father could probably live long enough to see his great-grand children. So not all of his father's hope. . .

"Boys! Come down! Your grandparents are here!" shouts their father.

Tom glances at Gabriel. "I'll show you some new stuff later."

Gabriel's eyes light up. "Potions?"

Tom grins. "And more."

 _III._

After showing him the complicated and rare ingredients to potions he learned this semester, Tom pauses and then grabs a book out of his trunk. _Legilimency Introduction_. The textbook to his Legilimency class at Merlin's. He then reads aloud the preview. "Dubbed mind-reading by beginners, Legilimency is a full-fledged magical field on par with Healing and Transfiguration. A smaller field than most with less practitioners, Legilimency is often paired with Occlumency. Occlumency is a sister field in which practitioners shield their minds."

"Mind-reading," breathes Gabriel, his eyes widening. "No way."

Tom nods. "That's what I've been learning this semester."

"What do you think of it?"

"Sounds like psychology. But for wizards," Tom replies. "From what I've read about psychology, it seems like they both have a lot of overlap."

Gabriel mutters, "Mind-reading. Legilimency. You know how to do it?" He arches an eyebrow in curiosity. "Want to try it on me?"

Tom hesitates. Then he nods. "Okay. It doesn't require a wand or anything. I just need to look in your eyes."

Gabriel gives him a full stare. Sky-blue eyes. Unblinking. Unafraid of anything at all. "Would it work on me?"

"I think so." Tom looks at Gabriel's eyes and then dives in, casting a wandless spell. He meets no resistance, unlike what he has met in his peers when he tried Legilimency on them. But he could see Gabriel's psyche. It's huge, encompassing. But also strangely comforting in a way. Gabriel's psyche goes up to Tom's, whispering hello.

Tom quickly pulls out, surprised that he could even react to Tom's intrusion. "Whoa. . ." Back in his Legilimency class, there were some wizards and witches who couldn't tell that Tom was even in their minds. Their level of awareness is not even a tiny fraction of what Gabriel has. Tom knows exactly what this is.

"You're a natural Occlumen!" realizes Tom. Tom's professor says the same thing about Tom himself, but not even Tom possesses the same amount of awareness and control Gabriel easily commands. Every single movement, every little push Tom makes, Gabriel seems to know exactly which direction Tom's heading.

"What?" Gabriel blinks, completely confused. "I think I felt something in my head. Was that you, Tom?"

Tom nods. "It was." A pause. "Can I try again?"

"Sure."

Tom casts the spell once again, looking right into Gabriel's ice-blue eyes. Windows to his soul, to his mind. He flies towards Gabriel's mind and is met with a cool resistance. Like a shield. It's not the most perfect shield he has ever seen, but it's most certainly willful and determined.

"You're blocking me," realizes Tom.

It shouldn't be possible. Yet it is.

 _IV._

Charlie and Tom have long stopped looking for the mysterious Chamber of Secrets. Charlie sends off a note about his suspicions of what the monster is to the headmaster. Instead, they study more about Transfiguration. Tom sends a transfigured pet dragon to Charlie as a very, very late Christmas gift in February.

It took him longer than expected to get the wings correct. The intricate details of the wings, from the veins to the sharp, thin bones, are remarkable.

 _V._

The second semester of seventh year. Also the last semester of his years at Hogwarts. He supposes he feels somewhat wistful and strange about leaving the castle, but it's nice to move on to study something else. To study more about Legilimency and Occlumency. To keep exploring the depths magic can go.

His years at Hogwarts ends with the graduation ceremony. He and Charlie ditch their last days just to skip rocks across the lake, ruining their perfect attendance records. The transfigured pet dragon, who is named Honey, flies off to chase birds.

"Would you ever work for the Aurors?" suddenly asks Charlie. With a quick snap, he transfigures Tom's very flat rock into a bird. Before the bird can skip the waters one more time, it flies off towards the sky. "That was twelve."

"Uh-huh. We both know that would have beaten your record of thirteen."

Charlie taps his chin, as if seriously considering. "But would it?"

Tom shakes his head. "Your turn."

Charlie picks up a flat rock and stretches his left arm, prepping. Then he releases the rock, watching it skip multiple times before shifting into mayfly. Breaking the surface of the still waters, a large fish clamps its jaws around the fly.

"That was five. You're terrible at this, Weasley," drawls Tom.

His friend flicks a rude gesture at him.

"And such a graceful loser," he adds savagely.

"But the Aurors?"

Tom shrugs. "I would rather study Legilimency and Occlumency."

"Which is very much needed by Aurors," says Charlie, taking a drink from the lake. "Mmm. I always wanted to try that." He wipes his mouth on his sleeve while Tom bits back a retort about sanitation. "Best water I've ever tasted in my life. But if you ever get an offer, would you take it?"

"Too many years of practice and experience needed to even apply. But I think it provides good career advancement. If you're the kind of person who wants to a bureaucrat."

"Blimey, I keep forgetting you would rather be a researcher for the rest of your life."

 _VI._

For his independent project to achieve an official degree from the university, Tom chooses to heal a girl scarred of the darkest magic he has ever faced. Her mind is twisted with images and thoughts beyond anything he has ever seen. And he could have sworn that the curse's dark magic tries to beckon him to join. . . to give up. He'll be lying if it wasn't tempting. Just a little bit.

His observing professor, the infamous Queenie Goldstein, pats his shoulder and shakes her greying head. "Look, Tom. If you're concerned about succeeding this independent study, let me assure you that you will pass it whether or not you successfully heal Miss Ginny Weasley. Far more experienced Legilimens than you have tried and failed."

Tom places down his dark journal on Ginny's nightstand, watching the redhead sleep in a magically-induced coma. She's only twelve yet she has somehow been cursed by such powerful, dark magic. He grits his teeth. "But how many of those Legilimens could say that this is personal?"

A few days before Christmas, Charlie has owled him. Informing Tom of Ginny's condition. As soon as he heard that Ginny's problem is more of a Legilimency problem than a simple healing, he decides to do his project and save Charlie's sister in one go.

If Hermione has a physical form, her mouth would drop with surprise. She could remember this very clearly. Back in her third year, Ginny strangely disappeared for four months before returning in May. Just in time for her make-up finals. That very month, Hermione has spent hours and hours just working with Ginny to get her caught up. Ginny barely passed with the exception of Charms, in which she blew the test away with near perfect scores.

Softening slightly, Goldstein frowns. "I know. But you should remember that you need to pull back when you must. What would her family think if they lost her but also you as well?"

"I have to try," he says, gazing at Ginny. Then an idea comes upon him. He pulls out his wand carefully and then casts a few diagnostic spells. The results. . . He quickly grabs the clipboard detailing Ginny's condition. The curses she's under. . . and what the Healers have done for her. "Some of these curses are still active. And there are traces of various other curses."

"Yes," confirms Goldstein. She turns away. "I must attend to the other patients, Mr. Riddle. Remember to take breaks in between sessions."

He nods. "I know. Thank you." He straightens a bit and narrows his eyes at her. "Maybe. . ." he wonders aloud.

He needs to do a lot more research.

 _VII._

Curse-breaking is not one of his best skills. In his younger years, he has been quite capable of casting curses before he even knew what they were. That was before he lived with his father and Gabriel. The other foster siblings didn't like him, and vice versa. They conveniently fell down, hit their heads, and broke their bones from some strange reason. But every single of them, without a doubt, has upseted Tom in some way or another before their injury.

In his Hogwarts years, he quickly learned how to curse, hex, and jinx the other Slytherins. Charlie has taught him a few things or do. Things he learned from his younger twin brothers and his older brother, Bill.

He has never realized how delicate the art of curse-breaking is. It's sort of like reversing the original curse. . . or perhaps forcing it to collapse via some contradiction in its original structure. Or overpowering it. He studies the ancient book that once contained Ginny's curse, reevaluates the way he casts curses, and remembers the surge of pleasure correlated to the use of the dark arts.

Tom would never admit to anyone that this type of magic calls to him. It sings to him sweetly and seductively. He has always known about his affinity for this magic, and yes, he has explored its depths to various distances. And to various success. Arthur Weasley will never approve.

But it is this knowledge that he applies to Ginny's curse. It's with this knowledge that he, after two months and a half of looking through books in both the Ministry's and the university's libraries and examining cases similar to Ginny's, that's he's able to banish the curse by simply overpowering its magic with his own. And when he tries to run a test to see if he could find a single trace of dark magic, he couldn't see anything.

Yet. . .

She does not wake. When he performs Legilimency on her, he's stunned to find that her psyche is scarred and broken as if the curses are still active upon her.

Pulling back from Ginny's weaken mind, he runs his hand through his messy hair. He's completely unaware of how tired he looks, simply running on adrenaline. Running on the scent of a close victory and triumph.

Perhaps it's mercy that Charlie takes that moment to walk into the isolated room. Or maybe it's simple chance.

"Tom, you look dead," he remarks.

Tom tightens his hand around his wand. "That's usually what happens when you nearly overextend your magic to simply blast a curse to oblivion," he replies drily.

"Nothing's simple about this curse. And there's nothing simple in simply blasting it to hell." A pause. "The Healer said you've been in here for eight hours. You need a break."

"I'll take a break when hell—"

Charlie, with a quick whip of his wand, stuns Tom.

 **Second A/N:** If you follow me, you know what sorts of shit I've been up to. I'm doomed.


	7. Fracture

**A/N:** Fudge. I don't know when is this going to end. I like Tom Riddle's past a little too much. Can't you tell? If you look at the author's note of _Taunt a God_ 's chapter called "Gaston," you'll find a further description of my mental breakdown. :'D

 _I._

He wakes up in a cot, in a white sterile room that's clearly not his apartment. Memories quickly come back before his eyes. Charlie. . . stunning him. . . in the back! He quickly sits up and swallows down the feeling of hurling out what little he has eaten the day before. Wobbling as he stands, he heads over to the sink and washes his face. He's not surprised to find his eyes bloodshot with bags underneath.

Every muscle he uses feels incredibly sore, as if he ran five miles without stretching beforehand. Overextension of his own magic, he knows. But he always feels a bit better afterwards, as if he received the best workout of his life.

A tiny bellow draws his attention to the corner. Honey, her dark scales glimmering and yellow eyes gleaming with an inner fire, flaps her wings with excitement at the sight of Tom. She bellows a bit louder towards the open doorway.

"Calm down," he mutters, out of the corner of his mouth.

A hand shoves a thick mug of black coffee underneath his nose. Greedily, Tom accepts it and downs the warm liquid quickly. He raises an eyebrow at Charlie and says, "If this is your form of apology, please know that it's been partially accepted. There's this little ache in my muscle from where you stunned me."

"Well, good morning, Riddle," replies Charlie, taking back the Christmas mug. He glances at Tom, looking down and then up. He sarcastically remarks, "I'll say I'm fairly confident that you've been well-rested."

Not missing a beat, Tom shoots back with his mouth. "I'll say that your wandwork needs a little more work. No finesse. Shoddy."

He rolls his eyes. "That so-called shoddy wandwork still stunned you." A pause. Charlie's face molds into an expression of somber and seriousness. "Ginny's still acting the same. The Healers can't find any trace of dark magic, but she's still not well."

"Legilimency. I need to look into her mind."

Looking over Tom briefly one time, Charlie nods. "I'll take you to her."

 _II._

It's a storm in there.

Memories are scattered hazardously without order or structure. Tom has seen memories and minds like this, but never on the scale where the madness seems to be reaching out towards him. Beckoning to join in. He shivers inwards, but outside, he makes no such expression. It's no wonder why no Legilimens would want to dive too deep into Ginny's mind.

Well, like what he said to Goldstein, this is _personal_.

What exactly makes a mind a mind?

A soul?

Life?

He has gone through a baby's mind before. It's feeble, weak. . . Barely aware much of anything in the world. Undeveloped is the best word for it. It lives on inborn instincts to do the simplest task, and with growth, experience, and time, the brain begins to form more and more.

His brother, Gabriel, seemed to be, at first, nuts when he revealed he was taking philosophy classes as well as psychology and other humanities such as political science. The questions Gabriel asked were of unusual nature. What is a soul? What exactly is free will? Is there actually a difference between right and wrong?

Gabriel admitted that philosophy is hard for him. It asks the most complicated and groundbreaking questions that throw everyone off their orbit. Makes everyone question their very existence and their place in society and their purpose and everything they've learned so far from life. What is life, even? What is the point of it?

To answer these questions, Muggles use math, physics, logic, arguments with mixed results. What they didn't know was magic. Magic, to answer the problems of philosophy.

But even wizards don't fully understand the concept of a soul, Tom admits. It's simply one of those things, like tradition, that's always there but never questioned. _Why would you do it this way?_

 _Because it's the way it's always been done._

Well, Tom isn't one of those people who would simply accept the barely understandable explanation that has been passed down over the years and generations. No. He would constantly keep looking for the answer, and when he finds it, he'll verify repeatedly whether or not it's correct. Answers can be drawn from conclusions, but the conclusions must be drawn from experimentation.

Ginny's mind is shattered, torn apart just like a child's mental state. Feeble, weak. Even haunted, he supposes. This sort of damage may be incurable for Legilimens and Healers alike. But Ginny is still a child. Her brain hasn't quite developed yet to an adult's mind. Theoretically, she might be more capable of recovering than an adult's. Many has seen a child hit their head hard upon the bottom of the table, and then two hours later, run around the house as if nothing has happened at all.

Regardless of what magical theories say, Tom is very much open towards experimentation. And he is, without a single doubt, willing to _try_.

 _III._

After doing countless amounts of shouting, pushing, and persuading, Tom can't quite figure out how exactly to repair Ginny's mind. Force is useless. Words don't work. But he can feel there's a way to help her. He's just missing it.

He leans against one of her cherished memories. Fred and George sneaking beetles into Percy's socks. It seems quite cruel of them to do so, but hiding in the closet with her two brothers, Ginny finds it particularly amusing when Percy does catch the beetles. He only takes a single blink to guess who the culprit is.

With a flushed face, Percy screams, "Fred! George!" He runs out of his room, carrying the beetle-filled socks in his hand. "Where are you?" he hollers.

Fred begins snickering.

Tom straightens when he realizes that most of her psyche, her awareness is centered in the most comforting memories. He begins to smile when he realizes that it doesn't have to be _him_ alone to fight against this darkness.

She's the master of her own mind. She's the only who can truly see the darkness, the scars left behind. As much as he tries, her evaluation is nothing compared to hers.

So perhaps, he should chase away some of the nightmares, but it's her will and strength that must be called to fight off the curse permanently.

 _IV._

He does something no sane Legilimens would ever do.

He lowers his mental shields and calls out to the swirling darkness. The hopelessness, the anger, the sadness, the unspoken emptiness. He pulls his best memories, the laughter at Riddle's House in the early Christmas morning when Gabriel sneaks up at four to take a peek at some of his presents. Tom always manages to catch him at the foot of the stairs, or behind the Christmas tree, or right in front of Gabriel's bed when Gabriel decides to open his eyes. It has become some sort of game to them.

At the face of those memories, the darkness washes away, receding into nothingness. He grabs additional memories, the good ones that help him cast a Patronus, and holds it in front of him like a sword to cut away and send back the hopelessness.

Because only hope can fight hopelessness. Only light can fight the darkness. Light. . . Goodness to wash away the urge to hurt people, to terrorize children, to subject cruelty on friends.

But then the darkness flexes itself.

Strengthen.

Tom's heart drops. His best memories are torn away, devoured. His throat is seized with panic, and he feels like a third year all over again when he sees that boggart for the first time in Professor Lupin's office. That boggart of his father. . . His mother screaming. . .

He shakes himself.

No. No.

That is fear talking, he realizes. And the darkness, the dead curse, is strengthening from his panic, from his fear, from his lack of objective.

Struggling with all of his will and grimacing from the strain to resist the temptation to relax, to give up completely, he pulls himself together and his shields back up. Yet, the darkness is increasing in power. He's not feeding to it anymore. . .

So who else could it be?

He screams, _GINNY, STOP THIS_.

From the darkness, he hears a voice. _I can't._

With horror, he realizes that the darkness. . . The curse. . . It is not the curse.

It's Ginny's darkness.

Her depression.

 _V._

It takes several improper looks into her memories that makes him pull together the complete picture. Improper, because there's an unspoken rule among Legilimens to never look into the core memories of a person. A single movement, a little jostle, to the memories can change a person's personality forever.

Ginny is depressed. Has been, for a long time, even before the curse took control over. The curse has most certainly amplified the power of her depression, to the point where she wouldn't eat on her own and actively pursuing ways to off herself before she was admitted to St. Mungo's and placed in a magically-induced coma.

Before the curse, however, she had the sort of depression that made her a bit moody some days. Some days, she felt like she couldn't crawl out of bed, but she always did. George or Fred would pull away her blankets, do a stupid joke that would make her laugh or cry in horror, but encourage her to get up in the morning.

Some nights, she would lay awake in bed at night, finding herself unable to sleep. She could cry to herself about death, about feeling nothing afterwards. About never being able to experience something, to feel pain or joy again.

But she comforted herself with the thought that she would feel nothing in that lifeless void.

He _understands_.

He, too, has feared death. But it's the kind of fear that comes out of not living, not experiencing enough. Being afraid of not living. He could remember the restless nights and then the ear Gabriel unfailingly offers and all the confusing questions about life, death, and _living_.

It takes every bit of energy to manipulate the setting. Change the ground to something he could fight on without losing himself. When he could finally breathe again, he finds himself at the blackboard with a chalk in his hand. Only one student is sitting there, dutifully taking notes. Red-haired. Wearing the standard Hogwarts uniform for girls. A quill is tucked between her fingers, and she looks far more solid and alive than Tom has ever seen her since the curse has struck her down.

One Ginny Weasley.

 _VI._

"Hello, Ginny."

"Tom," she says, smiling weakly. She drops the quill, as if surprised to be holding it. "I don't. . . remember very much."

"You remember what year you're in?"

"My first year at Hogwarts," she answers with conviction.

Tom nods. "Correct. Do you remember what happened?"

She furrows her eyebrows.

 _Pretty, pretty lady_ , crackles the rogue psyche Hermione holds imprison. _Wonder if she'll like me to lick her hair._

Hermione only squeeze him tighter, pressing him in an willful response.

The psyche winces.

"I fell asleep in bed, with a book on my lap. And it started hurting really bad." Her pale hands drop to her lap, to her thighs. "It was right here. Felt like it was burning me. I thought I would finally know. . ." She pauses, as if suddenly alarmed of Tom's presence. She blushes, shaking her head. "Never mind."

Tom puts down the chalk on the teacher's desk. Fixing the green tie around his neck, he bends his knees and plants himself in front of Ginny. On the floor. Kneeling to her. Gently, he says, "Ginny, I want you to know that you're not awake. Stay calm. You're in a magically-induced coma."

"Because of the curse. I feel it."

"It's gone," he tells her, reassuring her. "But you're holding yourself back. You're the only one who can wake yourself up. The curse is broken. Has been for a while. Try to wake up."

She closes her eyes. "This doesn't feel like a dream. But if it is. . . It is a vivid dream."

"Dreams are vivid when you're sleeping. They become only pieces when you're awake," he explains. A pause. "Picture Fred and George. Putting one of their devilish tricks in the early morning," he suggest. "And you can sense them doing that, messing around with your hair, tickling your feet, and tiptoeing across your room. You decide to wake up, to shout them away."

Her fists clench together. She concentrates.

Tom's heart drums rapidly when he sees her translucent. Evaporating into thin air. Without a single breath of hesitation, he reaches towards her and grasps around her wrist. "Ginny," he gasps, her name coming out strangled.

She quickly looks around, her dullish eyes wide open. To his relief, she has resolidified. Mostly. She looks like a living ghost. Or a ghostly girl. She blinks a few times, clearly confused, and asks, "Did something happen, Tom?"

"No," he lies. He twirls his wand, trying to figure out how to hold Ginny here and help her put herself back together. To make her stand on her own.

His idea truly sparks when he recognizes the classroom he stands in. A Hogwarts classroom, yes. But not just any classroom. The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. This is from his memory, this is the place where he discovered his strength back in first year, this is Professor Moody's classroom. Here is where Moody taught how to defeat darkness with light, and like what Moody has done to Tom, perhaps the same could be done for Ginny.

 _VII._

He discovers it isn't easy to teach her. Her gifts lie in Quidditch, jinxes, and hexes, not in other fields that he is exceptional at. Though he has always been exceptional in discreetly cursing people as Charlie has found out many times over in April of every year. In Transfiguration, he finds her frequently glancing away, not quite concentrating on what he is saying. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, she has some intuition against the Dark Arts, but it is not enough to help her.

But in the meanwhile, he teaches her simple Charms to cheer her up. The Cheering Charm, when cast upon her, helps a little and seems to take away whatever pain and aftershocks of the Dark curse she is still feeling. She seems to find amusement in Curse of the Bogies, though Tom personally thinks it's a juvenile, simple spell specifically made to humiliate people. He is pleased to discover how quickly she learns Charms, however.

But it is with the Fire-making Spell where she is incredibly proficient. He smiles as he watches Ginny burn down some logs he has transfigured from the desks in the back of Moody's classroom.

 _VIII._

"Well, how is she doing?" asks Charlie, a book lying open in his palms. It is on the same page—one-hundred thirty-nine—as before. Tom has been giving him hourly updates, moving in and out of Ginny's mind.

"Some progress." A pause. "But she is not ready yet."

He straightens in the hospital chair by Ginny's bed, a hand coming to rest upon her forehead. "Will she ever be?"

Quirking an eyebrow, Tom turns to look at Charlie's sister and rhetorically asks, "How can anyone be ready against the pain of living?" Tom's dark eyes glow mournfully. His head turns away from Ginny and towards the windows letting the rays of the sunset in.

 _IX._

Once the memory stops, it forcefully spits the Hermione and the rogue psyche out. More prepared than the psyche, Hermione shoves hard at psyche, shocking it temporarily. She thins out, concentrating. Then she seizes forcefully onto the psyche, trying to absorb it into her. She has one memory particularly picked out.

The psyche seemingly obeys. Then it sharpens, cutting through Hermione's essence. She cries out, clinging onto him once again and tugging him towards the sticky memory.

But before the psyche could enter the sticky memory, it frees itself from her control and dives into another one of core memories. Hermione, composed of will and strength, follows.

Only a matter of time before she completely traps him. Only a matter of time.

 _X._

It must have been months later in the next memory she enters. She could feel the psyche running ahead of her, occasionally taunting her in some moments.

Ginny stands in the classroom, her wand held firm in her hand. Moody's classroom used to have four walls, except this time, one of the walls has been removed to examine the depths of Ginny's despair. Tom stands to her side, his own wand pointing down by his thigh. He whispers, "You can do this, Ginny."

" _Expecto patronum_ ," she whispers. Only a silver wisp comes out of her wand.

She senses the psyche ahead of her, rushing through the memories. Shoving aside another memory, she enters a memory sequence and follows the psyche through. Memory sequences occur more frequently in the core, where memories that are large and complex bind together to form a sort of flow or pathway between one and another.

Scenes blur by as Hermione gains only whispers of conversations between eleven-year-old Ginny Weasley and a young Tom Riddle.

"I can't do this," she says.

"You can," he always replies, confidence in his eyes. "You believe that you can't do it, then you will never be able to do it."

She hears the laughter of the psyche ahead of her.

 _Pretty girl_ , it coos.

Hermione grimaces.

"I feel the same way." A pause. "I fear it, too."

Ginny nods, as if knowing that all along. "But how you do live with it?"

"I can show it to you. A memory."

And the psyche, then Hermione, enter the memory within a memory. She breathes in, stunned by how weighed this memory, this one _memory_ back in his early years at Hogwarts, is.


	8. Erasure

**A/N:** You got to be kidding me. Seriously.

 _I._

There are brief flashes between Tom Riddle's memory and her own reality. Confusing, confounding, bewildering moments. The shrieking laughing of the psyche running ahead of her, thoughtless to the precise, careful order of the memories. She spies a hint of red hair, feels the horror of Ginny Weasley when she immerses herself into the old memories of a young Tom Riddle.

The white handkerchief appears before her, floating on the wind and then disappearing into the distance. Blacking into nothing. The memory blends into another, taking her to the library at Hogwarts.

She concentrates, trying to find the psyche. It turns out to be easy. It coos in front of her, delighted by the deepest secrets of a young Tom Riddle as he peers over books on the darkest of magic. A way to be immortal and never be afraid of death again. A white handkerchief keeps his spot as he obsessively reads through the section again. It is not as if he needs it. He already has the page and its information seared into the very back of his eyelids.

The aging book suddenly slams shut. Only fifteen years old, Charlie skims the title and gasps, "That is not what I think it is."

Tom says nothing. There is no way to lie, and Charlie simply knows him too well. And Charlie has studied the library as much as Tom, if not nearly more than him.

"Horcrux," whispers Charlie, shaking his head. His face has turned pale. "This is one of the Darkest of Dark Arts. Witches and wizards have done—"

"Terrible but great things," Tom cuts in.

Charlie only pales even further, as if witnessing the death of someone he cared much about. Still, he does not flinch from his best friend. Nor does he condemn him any further.

 _II._

Horcrux.

Hermione has never heard of it before. Well, she has, but only in passing. Never before has she seen detailed ingredients needed to make a horrible object.

The psyche running ahead of her is only too gleeful to hear more.

 _III._

"You make one, and I will be there to tear it apart," Charlie growls. "Count on it, Tom."

 _IV._

Hermione allows herself to slip towards the more compelling memories. The ones that seem to _demand_ her attention. She finds the psyche already there, crackling and blowing raspberries at Ginny.

"Horcrux," he says to Ginny, as if that single word is an answer and an explanation. He stands next to his memory self, who pays no attention to his observers as he carefully presses a white handkerchief to the bloody cut in his palm. The handkerchief slowly turns from a flower-like white to a crimson, rich shade of spotty red.

Like Charlie Weasley, she pales. "Did you. . .?"

Tom pauses.

Then the memory slips away. It blends into another one, tearing both Hermione and the psyche away from the rest of Ginny's question.

 _V._

"You don't understand."

 _VI._

Hermione concentrates, resisting the pull of another of her professor's memory. She quickly imagines, building a new scene.

She _needs_ control. She _wants_ to pull him out. Or shut him down forever.

Then the memory drags in her as well, as troubling as quicksand.

It seems to be holding a breath. Holding the breath of a storm.

 _VII._

"Understanding what? That you are destroying your soul because of what you fear? You're only running closer to your death."

 _VIII._

Standing in the memory of his school years, he says to Ginny, "It is dangerous. It was something I should have not even thought of."

"With that," she pauses, realisation striking her, "you would be immortal."

Hauntingly mysterious, he hesitantly agrees, "Death would never touch me." A pause. "But it's not the way to fight fear."

 _IX._

"I _need_ to do this, Charlie."

 _X._

He is running across the campus of the university he teaches at. He is wrong. So wrong in so many ways.

The woman in front of him laughs, shrieking. She dashes between the statues of the two roaring lions. "You can't catch me, little professor!"

Silently, he throws a curse at the fleeing woman. A part of him is thankful that there are wards here preventing Apparition. At the same time, he absolutely hates how this chase must be dragged on and on. Where he works at.

In an university, no less. It's evening, but there is always a chance a student may be coming out of the rare late class.

If this goes on any longer, he swears he will kill her, Auror rules on consultants in the field be totally damned.

She quickly blocks the curse with a Shield Charm. Turning around the corner, Tom's stomach drops as she moves closer to main entrance of Transfiguration Hall. That building usually has classes all hours of the day. Including midnight.

"Leg—" she starts, turning her back to the building.

But Tom quickly blocks it.

She growls, her black hair unraveling from its careful braid. Delphi and her associates are not criminals that could be caught so easily. She left a string of memory-less victims in her wake without using any Memory Charms. She has spent the last four years practicing her favorite way of torture: Legilimency. He has spent the last _three_ years trying to put the victims back together with various success since the Danish Aurors first contacted him.

His eyes widen when a familiar bushy-haired student comes through the door, searching through her beaded bag. As if sensing the few options she has left now against the Master of Legilimency, Delphi crackles and screams, " _Legilimens_!"

Both women hit the floor, completely unconscious.

Acting quickly, he bounds Delphi quickly and removes her wand. Carefully casting a few spells over the motionless, facedown student, he pales when he realizes that Delphi is _within_ the student's mind. A quick flick of his wand turns the student over. His thoughts scream at him, _no, no, no, please no._

Hermione Granger.

He backs up as he lets out a slow, nervous breath. Third year here at this university. A student of his. Top in his class. His mind quickly calculates the _chances_ , and with a swish of his wand, a silvery animal swims across the sky to warn the Aurors. Another Patronus quickly follows, traveling straight to Malfoy Manor.

He stares down at her. She will need all the luck she can get.

 _XI._

"Okay. Fine. Say that you do this. That you manage to become immortal, Tom. What would happen to everyone else? When they have past and you are left alone."

 _XII._

"How is she?" he asks.

"Delphi caught her unaware," says Narcissa Malfoy, running her wand over Hermione Granger's head. The blonde woman turns her head back to Tom. "From the scans I've been running, Delphi erased about a year's worth of memories before Hermione pushed back. But once Delphi erased Hermione's memories of her Legilimancy attack. . . She could do anything."

He looks at her and then cracks his neck, slowly running a hand along his wand.

Narcissa's eyes widen. "You can't be serious."

Tom sits down at the cot next to Hermione and across from Delphi's bound form. Not even moving his mouth, he casts.

 _XIII._

 _Silence._

 _XIV._

"You don't need to be strong," he says, looking at a red-haired girl. No, he's talking to a bushy-haired woman with sleepy eyes and war written in her scars. Her clothes are torn at various places, and her hands are bright red with fresh blood.

The image flickers, switching from Ginny to Hermione. Then from Hermione to Ginny, as the memories begin to blend together.

"You just need to survive. So survive, Hermione."

Ginny's face morphs into Hermione's professor with shabby black robes and wild, long hair. He looks at her hard, tiredness written in every line and wrinkle of his face. Still, he is unmistakable as ever as he looks directly into Hermione's eyes.

"Your days are numbered. Your days are a gift. And every day is worth living. It's our present. You can't live in fear. It's not living."

"Professor!" Hermione shouts, both memory version and current self echoing each other. "Professor, professor, professor!"

Ginny screams, "Tom! Tom?"

Shaking his head, Charlie whispers, "Tom?" Then he hardens a little.

 _XV._

"Promise me one thing, Tom. You keep your soul whole. For now. For forever."

 _XVII._

"Tom, I'm scared. I don't know how to do this! Please. . . Stay with me."

 _XVIII._

"Professor! Please help me! I can't fight her off forever!"

 _XIX._

 _I promise I will._

 **A/N: This is the only version of Delphi I can believe. Which is to say that the fanfic, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, version of her does not exist.**


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